2 Bar Stools and Another

The woman was an attractive collection of wrinkles.  She had quit smoking 20 years before but the lines around her mouth still reflected all the long, deep draws that had given her so much pleasure for so many years.  There were lines from a million, million smiles and lines leading to her eyes.  She sat on her bar stool and was an easy laugh for the drunken boys telling stories and cracking jokes she had heard before.  Everyone there knew her name and even knew that that particular stool was her's.  And they knew the one next to it belonged to her brother Earl.

Earl sat beside her with not nearly so many lines.  She was older than him by three years but that didn't explain it.  Earl would have been the perfect poker player.  You could almost never tell what Earl was thinking by looking at him. You couldn't tell his mood and some folks wondered if he even had them.  He heard the same stories and the same jokes and if he thought one was particularly funny, he might purse his lips a little closer together.  But you had to be especially observant to notice.

They sat together every night on those same stools and had done so for years and years.  He usually nursed six or eight beers over the course of the night.  Sometimes, when work had been especially hard, for a whole week when the new plant manager started, he would sit and sip bourbon.  Whether it was the beer or the whiskey, it was a lot for a night.  It was especially a lot when you consider it was every night.

But he paled beside his sister.  Ruth would sit beside him drinking three to four beers to his one.  She would sip for a bit and then take a great gulp and then, when the bottle was running low, she would pull down hard on the last of it with her head turned up and bubbles running back up the bottle.  Some of the boys would buy her shots and she would nail them down one after another. She would eventually make soothing sounds to the one who eventually threw them all back up.  And then she would drink the shot that had been left in front of the poor soul.

That was her life.  Wake up each morning still a little drunk, drink coffee and water at work fighting against the inevitable hangover, and then killing the hangover back on her stool.  The routine varied only in the food - onion rings some nights.  Sometimes the mozzarella sticks.  The chili cheese fries if she was particularly hungry.  Of course she had half a steak and a baked potato slathered in sour cream on Thursday Night Ten Dollar Steak Night - always.  But otherwise it was the same night every night.

This night was different.  Her son sat down from her on the other side of Earl.  She had bought him a shot just to piss him off.  He wouldn't drink it but of course it wouldn't go to waste.  He had come to try to talk her into going to rehab again.  That would be a waste - of time and of effort.  But it was his time and his effort and she had his shot to look forward to so she let him go on.  Earl sipped his bourbon - she would have to remember to ask him about his day.  You couldn't tell that he was listening to them at all even though the words had to slide around him.

All the boy's words (she would always think of him as her boy) all the boy's words were the same and she kept playing with him by trying to change the subject.  She had learned it was better to let him get it all out until he had to start repeating himself.  Eventually even he would get tired of the same reasons and the same assurances and the same platitudes and he would run down and finally tell her that he loved her.  Then he would shake his head at Earl and he would leave.  The whole thing annoyed the hell out of her but she let it pass because she knew he genuinely loved her and wanted what he thought was best for her.  But he had been more fun back in his twenties when he would sit and have a drink with them.

This time played out much the same.  Almost.  He said all the same things and he repeated them all just like all the times before.  But this time he took the shot glass and slammed it down on the floor and the whole bar went silent and Roscoe the bartender had shouted, "Hey!" and had started to come down to their end of the bar.  Earl never raised his left fist from the bar.  He just extended his forefinger and pointed Roscoe back to the other end of the bar.

The boy saw the gesture and it pissed him off all the more, "And you, you just sit there watching her kill herself and you don't do a damn thing about it!"

Ruth found her voice, "I'm a grown ass woman you little shit.  What exactly do you think he is going to  do, Jimmy?"

The boy looked at her and then quickly back to Earl.  "You enable all this.  She can't hit rock bottom because you keep catching her and propping her back up! If you actually gave a damn, you'd put her out of your house and get her off that damn bar stool!"

Earl never looked at the boy.  He always thought of him as a boy too.  Earl had changed his diapers and had bounced him on his knee and picked him up from school and had watched him puke when he had stolen one of Earl's bottles of Beam.  Earl just lifted his glass to his lips.  But the boy grabbed his wrist and the liquor sloshed up to his nose and dripped down his chin.

"Don't sit there getting drunker and drunker while I'm talking to you old man!"

"Jimmy," Earl replied, "I get that you are upset.  You see your mama drinking herself to death and that gets you one pass.  But I am an old man.  I ain't got time for bar fights and rolling around on a dirty floor with somebody.  You just might be able to kick my ass, maybe.  I doubt it, but maybe.  But, boy, I will hurt you permanently while you are busy kicking my ass.  I swear I will bite something off and you won't ever get it back unless you pick it out of my shit.  Now get your damn hand off of me."

The boy slowly removed the hand.  There really wasn't any fear on his face.  But there was embarrassment that had seemed to cut through his anger.  "I'm...I'm sorry Uncle Earl.  I shouldn't have done that."

Ruth was still quiet and Earl simply looked the boy in the eye and nodded.  The apology was something.  He was at least a good boy and Earl felt a certain amount of pride at that.  Ruth had never been much of a mother and she had never told anyone who the boy's father had been - if she even knew.  Earl had had no idea how to be a parent but he had tried to get the boy to be accountable for his actions.  And that thought, the idea of accountability, made Earl take a deep breath.

"Boy, if I was here or not, she would still be on that stool."

"Hello! I'm sitting right here - you ain't going to talk about me like I ain't even here."

Earl looked at his sister.  She started to say something to him and he leaned his head to the left and brows came together just enough to show he was getting angry and she turned back to her beer.

Earl turned back to the boy,"She ain't ever going any where but from that stool to bed to work and back to that stool.  She's gonna do it again and again until she leaves that stool and goes to the grave.  I come here with her.  I make sure she don't get robbed or raped or killed.  I make sure she don't freeze to death in the winter and I make sure she eats something at least once a day.  I know she's killing herself - it may be slower than a bullet but I still can't stop it and you can't either.

But you keep trying.  It is what a good son does.  You  try to stop the bullet.  I'm just doing my best to make sure she don't die alone.  Neither one of us has it easy."

The boy sat there with his mouth just a bit open and that squint a man gets when he is trying to hold onto a tear.  He finally closed his mouth and turned to the other end of the bar, "Roscoe, how much do I owe you for the shot glass?"

Roscoe shook his head and waved his bar towel at him.  The boy left and gradually sound returned to the bar.  Earl took a sip of this bourbon and looked up at the game on the silent television.

"You really think that?  You really think I am just sitting here every night killing myself? What the hell does that make what you're doing?  How are we so damn different?"

Earl never looked down from the game and took another sip of his drink.

Ruth found she had to swallow a little harder that normal.  "Well then," and she took a deep breath, "Roscoe, let me try one of those bourbons."

Stray Thoughts - Haven't Done This in a While

Baked Walking Dead

Never thought of this before after reading a whole lot of the Walking Dead comic books and watching every episode of the TV show.  But this idea has finally struck and won't let me go.  All kinds of folks and societies have sprung up following the zombie apocalypse. But there has not been a story, to the best of my knowledge, a single story about a pot head who has hit the mother load. 

 Why didn't a hard core pot head go around to his dealer and take that stash and go to his dealer's supplier and take that stash and then go to the supplier's, um, supplier and come away with, like, 800 pounds of pot?  You just have a guy in a bomb shelter with case after case of Doritos (or which ever company is willing to tie itself to chronic drug use by paying for product placement in a post-apocalyptic television show) smoking weed with an AK-47, giggling his ass off while Negan twirls Lucille around and round?

And I thought of that having never smoked marijuana in my life. I know.

Really, Really Good Underwear

So I found this underwear by Reebok that is amazing!  It is a type of boxer brief made of breathable material that, honestly, is so panty like that a cross dresser would plotz over these briefs.  But it minimizes moisture accumulation in a sensitive area, I never have to clear the area, and I never have to adjust the mechanism any more, if you know what I mean.  They are a super expensive junk support technology that I love. I don't think Reebok will ever use this bit as an endorsement on their website but I LOVE their product.

A Jigger is 1.5 Ounces

One of the things that you do on Weight Watchers is measure most everything that you consume.  To that end, I had to learn, prior to consuming my favorite bourbon, just how many ounces were in the large side of a jigger.  To do that, what do you think I did?  Yep.  Googled it.  (As and aside, I am shocked that "Googled" is a word that this blog site does not underline in red as a misspelled word the way it did "misspelled" the first time I typed it ).

Back to the stray thought.  I had to Google "jigger".  I must have done something wrong.  And the search engine, Google, does not offer a red line.  So I guess I screwed up.  I was shown all these websites for Alt-Right websites.  Wonder what I typed?

Fear of Racism

So I am one of those white people who is afraid of being considered racist.  Like, if I make eye contact with a black person as I get out of my car and then lock my car, I wonder if that person thinks I am racist.  

But I am at least a little racist.  All white folks are.  And I think you can make an argument that all races are a little.  I know that the argument is that only white folks have enough power to implement their racism into a political reality.  But I also know that a big black dude who thinks you said something other than the word "jigger" at the bar will beat the living fecal matter out of you because he is predisposed to think of you as an oppressive prick based on a few hundred years of oppressive white prickishness.  

But a lot of white people are afraid of being considered racist.  Especially a lot of racist white folks.

Really Weird Religious Thought

There is a passage in the Bible that says that the church, the totality of believers, are the bride of Christ.  I have had this odd thought since I was a pre-teen about that.  What if that means that humanity was meant to be a companion to God?  Yeah.  Weird.  But listen.

Humanity is screwed UP.  Like, we are not the girl you would marry.  As Rick James famously sang,  we are not the "kind you take home to mother."  But there is an example in the Bible of a guy who not only married that type of chick, but was COMMANDED by God to deal with her issues.  God literally commanded Hosea to marry a prostitute. Yep.  Prostitute.  And  a prostitute who grew restless with the married life and cheated on her husband multiple times and each time he took her back and forgave her.  Sound familiar to ya, my church reared friends?

So my thought, one I don't really believe, is that humanity as a whole will become a single entity that is the ultimate companion of God.  I think that is the most hippie thing I have ever thought.

People Change

They just do.  No matter the smart ass saying and no matter the years of who they were before.  People change.  You can't be a Christian and not understand that.  People change because they are changed.  

Lessons and Repercussions

My mama was scared for us.  My daddy provided the lesson.  My mama always wanted us boys to find something stable. My brother Mark found the United States Postal Service and I found Walmart.  Both of these places of employment will be around far longer than our need of them.  My daddy could not stand the idea of having a boss.  He never told us that.  He just lived it and let Mama tell us about it.

He started a sawmill and pallet making company with a friend and it never really went any where and then lit up the sky from Douglas, Georgia to at least Alma, Georgia in a fire.  You have Googlemaps like the rest of us and can look that distance up or you can consider my considerable skeptical pride in the fact that a substantial portion of my youth went up in a pyre that would have made all the kings of antiquity jealous.  It was a GLORY.  

Daddy started a trucking company on his own that left him with less than nothing. Literally.  There was no profit and the debt he had to leave behind was amazing if not exactly glorious.  It just didn't take his money.  It took a chunk of his pride and maybe a bit of his soul.  

We boys never graded him on economics.  But he judged himself by it.  And it hurt him and that hurt me.  The man taught me to think.  He regretted that too sometimes and enjoyed it at others.  He was a challenge as a husband.  I never realized that until I noticed that some of the qualities I share with him have made Priscilla purse her lips.  And he had his faulstsas a father just like all fathers do.  But he loved my brothers and me the best way he knew how.  

Told us once when I was already a teenager that he realized that he had never hugged us often. He was an orphan until he found family with Mama and so hugging was not a nature for him.  So he explained he would hug us from time to time as the thought struck him whether there was a reason to or not.

He taught me to be irreverent.  So few people are.  And almost all of them chuckle at those of us who are.  And people need to chuckle.  Sometimes desperately so.

He told me once that he liked talking to me.  That I did not look at the world the way everyone else does.  That was awesome.  And as good a place to end this as any.

All Kinds of Beer Bottles

The neighborhood should have been dark. Should have been. The moon was brilliant, but the clouds hid it just as well as the stars. Rain misted and swirled in the breeze. The summer heat was still fighting to hold dominance over the coolness of the night. The rain was actually welcomed by those huddled in what should have been a dark, if not exactly stormy, night.

But the light was pretty much over whelming. Each police car had a blue and a red beacon shouting across the spectrum. There were over a dozen cars arrayed down the street. So many that they represented the pecking order of the officers who drove them. The newest, sleekest cruisers with the lights aerodynamically and deceptively woven into the fabric of the cars were reserved for the senior lot who got first pick of the newest models.

So it went all the way down to the almost anachronistic "bubble gum" machines on the tops of cars that would have been considered classics but for the fact that they were still in use - those were reserved for the newest to wear the badge. Except for the car that belonged to Jankowicz. The older, slightly pudgier than average cop had finagled to get the car he and his first partner had driven too many years ago. It was good to be the sergeant.

Up until just a few seconds ago, Jankowicz had been the most senior person on scene and as such had kept everything in check and made sure no civilians were in danger. He had also made the call to broadcast the situation far and wide so that every available unit would have the opportunity to respond. Jankowicz was not a complete fool.

Now he was not the most senior person on scene. Captain Horgan was here. Horgan was a couple of years younger than Jankowicz but had flown up the ladder. He had been a captain longer already than Jankowicz had been sergeant. But Horgan had not gone so far so fast without leaving a wake of resentment behind him. Jankowicz was not one of the many who held Horgan's ambitions against him. Jankowicz was not the type of man to care about such things.

"Jankowicz - what the devil is going on here? Its one in the morning in a middle class neighborhood and you have a battalion out here for a drunk and disorderly? What are you thinking?"

Jankowicz was not really thinking about Horgan's question. Horgan was not the type to understand the answer anyway. What Jankowicz wondered was how in the world a political animal like Horgan, who had not had to work a night shift in a decade, was aware of something, anything happening at this time of night.

Jankowicz heard the answer in his left ear. "It's Horgan. Horgan is here. Makes sense. He is doing that weather girl from channel 12 and she has that brownstone across the way over on Boynton St. You should check to see if his fly is open."

Despite himself, Jankowicz took a peek. Horgan did not notice. And his fly was up. Jankowicz had not quite gotten used to the earpiece and the sudden advent of another's voice from a far. So of course his rookie partner simply could not help herself but insinuate herself into his consciousness at awkward moments. "Well?!" shouted Horgan.

Jankowicz did his best to repress the smile that was too eager to come to his lips. "Well, Captain, its like this. The gentleman in that brown... um... fixer upper, I guess, you'd say for this neighborhood..."

"Its and eyesore Jankowicz. Get to the point."

"Well, it seems that the neighborhood housing committee - some kind of community standards group - sent three representatives over to talk to the owner, one Mr...."

Christy was in his ear again from her vantage point 3 cars over, "Josh Adams."

"Mr. Adams," Jankowicz continued. "They argued. Adams told them to get off his property or he would split a beer bottle over the head of each of 'em"

"And?" asked Horgan.

"And they didn't believe him and he went back into his house, came back with 3 beer bottles and, get this, as they ran from the house, ran mind you, nailed each one of them in the head with a beer bottle."

Horgan just stared. Jankowicz continued, "They weren't really hurt but called us. The first two on scene each took a beer bottle to the head from at least 30 feet. The next two showed up and he nailed them plus one of the first two guys taking a second shot. This time none of them closer than 40 feet at most. The one guy who had hung back to get the bleeding above his eye to stop said it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen. It would have been a big deal if the guy was sober but this guy is slurring his words and at least one of the guys with binocs thinks he may have pissed himself at some point."

Horgan just stared at Jankowicz. "By this point Christy and I are the next ones on the scene and she gets all over eager like rookies do...."

"HEY!" - right in his ear.

The squelch from the radio made him wince but Jankowicz continued, "So sure enough, she took one right off the noggin that sent her sprawling - she's back over there with one of those no-freeze ice packs on the knot on the side of her head."

Jankowicz stopped to take a breath and Horgan hissed a question,"Why the hell haven't you arrested him then? All he has is beer bottles? Geezus man, why do you have everybody out here with the world lit up?"

Jankowicz looked at Horgan. Every thought he had ever had about Horgan and the total lack of imagination required to play the political games required to hopscotch up the ladder was pretty much confirmed by Horgan's inability to grasp this situation. "Captain - he hasn't missed!"

Horgan just stared at the idiot Sergeant in front of him.

"As word got out and more and more cars showed up and some overly ambitious douche jumped out and ran to his front porch - POW - right in the kisser. He hasn't missed a single one.
Christy - how many is he up to now 30 - 31?"

"36" from his left ear.

"Thirty-six in a row! Thirty-six?"

"Some of the first guys tried twice," stated Christy - conveniently leaving herself out of the "some of the first guys" even though she had two knots on her head now.

Jankowicz shook his head, "Captain, you don't take a pitcher out when he is throwing a no hitter - with all due respect to Bobby Cox and Kent Mercker."

Horgan's eyes were wide but he found he could not talk. Jankowicz continued. "We started organizing the folks that arrived. We sent four up at once from different directions and he still nailed them. Some guys wanted to go up to five but the first two guys on the scene barked at that. They felt like, and I agree with them, that would make things too easy for the folks charging the porch."

"Too easy..." echoed Horgan, "for the POLICE!"

Jankowicz squirreled up his face and looked at Horgan like he was a moron. "Well, yeah. After we put on the helmets and the shooting googles, he really can't hurt us. Now its just a matter of skill."

Horgan looked at him, slack-jawed. "Captain, he is a perfect 36 for 36! That alone is amazing! And then you have to wonder where he got all the beer bottles and then it starts to become supernatural. "

Christy jumped in his ear again, "And the types of beer bottles! He had Miller and Bud and all the light varieties. But he has craft beers that I have never heard of and he has 7 ounce bottles and 12 ounce and a couple of growlers for the big guys like McGillicutty. Just being able to be so proficient with so many different sized beer bottles puts this whole thing over the top. And I just love the fact that he ain't a beer snob and will try just about anything from the looks of the glass out here."

Horgan watched as Jankowicz had gone glassy eyed while listening to his left ear and lost it. "Sergeant, you listen and you listen good, you hear me?" Horgan was waving his finger in Jankowicz's face. His own face was flush red and spittle was flying from his screaming maw. He noticed Jankowicz begin to roll his eyes and in that moment made up his mind to ruin the man - to drive him off the force all together. At the last moment he realized that Jankowicz was not rolling his eyes. He was merely looking up. Horgan turned in what felt like slow motion even to him as he started to realize what must be happening. Realization smacked him right in the face.

"37!!!!!!!!!"

Chapter 26: Her Confusion

His knee hurt.  It ached.  He walked with a limp that he resented.  At first he had gritted his teeth against it and refused to hobble despite the pain.  Long ago he had learned that pain was just an intense form of communication from nerves to brain.  Pain could be tied down or smothered if you had will enough to do it.  He had never lacked will.

But this was more than pain.  If he took a normal step, the knee became indecisive about which way it was meant to bend.  That invited more pain and a whole other resentment - his body working against him.  He had been stubborn - the less attractive cousin of a strong will - and refused to limp.  But the knee had sent him into walls and hopping against the possibility of a fall.  So he limped.

He was too old for this.  Long ago, when he was still in the life, he passed off this kind of thing to a younger generation of strong willed men.  He had been in his prime, still a power of a man who could inflict damage and pain if it was called for.  He had also been old enough to know when a stern word or even a smile would work better.  And he had given it over to younger men.  He was too old for this.

But there was no one else for it.  No one else would go after her.  She had killed the only one who would have.  She had killed her son.  He shook his head at thought.  He had known she was a hard woman.  He had been her instrument too many times to doubt her will. But to kill her own...

The boy had been like her in so many ways - smart and devious and savvy and charming.  He could put you in a good mood just by smiling at you.  He could talk.  He got that from his father - the politician.  But her mind and that smile and those words - the kid would have taken her out at some point - if that had ever been his aim.  But he just wanted to be away from her.

He didn't want what was hers and never had.  As just a boy he had seen through the manners and the politeness and the reserve and the poise that she wore.  He had seen the violence and rage and vulnerability and the vindictiveness and the utter incapacity for kindness.  He saw her plans.  He understood her calculations and manipulations and wanted no part of it.

The only thing he had not seen was her confusion, her blind spot.  No one who played her game as well as she did could ever be anything other than a threat.  He had wanted to walk away and be done with her.  Her need for control would never let him walk away.  He knew he would need a fortune to live a life free of her.  And she saw him amassing wealth - power - and came to the only conclusion she could have ever reached.

And the boy had never known the exact stakes they had played for.  And Ginger had never thought it would come to this either.  But the boy was dead.  His brother had been the weapon, but she had called the shot.  And now Ginger did the only thing a stubborn old man could do.  He hurt her as best he could.

The money was still earned and counted and stored and transferred in so many of the old ways that he himself had designed.  He waited at the weakest points and he killed and stole as much as he could.  He tipped the cops to the ones not vulnerable to a vengeful old man.  The limp had come when should have called the cops but pride and will had demanded he handle it himself.

The first two, the only two he had expected, had crumpled just as the lead found them.  Ginger took the time to take the silencer from his gun. He tossed them both into his duffle bag and raked thick stacks of bills in after it.    And then the third man, the unexpected man, the bastard who shouldn't have been there, had come out of the pisser. They had stared at each other for what had seemed like minutes.

Then the man had reacted.  He was a young man, at least forty years younger than Ginger.  And he was fast.  His leg had swept out and found Ginger's right knee.  The nerves in the knee had shouted - loudly.  Ginger had ignored the noise and as he fell he threw his right hand up into the man's groin and could almost hear that shouting as well.  As Ginger had hit the floor, the other man had doubled over while trying to remember how to breathe.

Ginger sat up and clapped his hands around the man's head and his thumbs found his eyes.  The screaming was out loud now.  Ginger slid his hands down and tried to make a fist with the man's throat between his fingers.  Ginger slung the corpse down and then frantically clawed over it until he found the other man's gun.  He was hyperventilating in great gulps of air as he scrambled across the floor to get his back to the wall and wait for the next unexpected thing.

Nothing else waited for him.  He got up.  The knee shouted. Ginger gritted his teeth.  The pain wilted.

Chapter 25 - How Blessing Met His Best Friend

Blessing looked around the house.  They had just come down the long hallway with a dining room set off to one side and a den of some kind off to the other.  It was not a large house.  It was really much smaller than any of the houses that his mother cleaned.  It was not all that much bigger than the house he and his mother lived in.  A crucifix hung by the doorway.  That was different.  There were so many in his home.  Just the one here.

He had been told to sit in the den while his mother met with the owner of the house - her employer.  He had not expected Ms. Wetta to live in a place like this.  He had expected more.  Grandeur and decadence was what he expected - even if his 13 year old vocabulary never had those words for it.  The closest it came to excess was the butler who answered the door.  A tall black man with red hair curled tightly and cut short to his head.  His eyes pushed down at him.  Those eyes, that stare, had made Blessing look down.  His own eyes fixed upon the shiny black shoes.  He stared at them and tilted his head just a bit.  Yep.  The vague image in the toe of the shoe shifted just the same.  This butler had style.

The butler had led his mother to the stairs to the basement.  Blessing had never known of a house in Crosby to have a basement and wanted to follow them - it was part of the reason he had left the den and was halfway down the hallway after them.  Years later, at the most awkward of moments, he would remember the door of the basement opening.  The black man held the door with his right hand while  his left found the center of his mother's back.  And his mother's right hand had reached up and settled in the middle of the black man's chest.  He had seen this.  But he had not noticed it. A part of him locked the memory away.

He looked up at one of the pictures on the wall and saw a man.  His sandy blonde hair was going to grey around the edges.  The man was in a plaid shirt and was holding the reins of a horse.  The horse's head was draped over his shoulder in a way that Blessing, who knew nothing about horses, could tell was friendly.  There was a boy on the other side of the horse.  He had the same hair and eyes and nose and bearing of the older man.  But his smile was... friendlier.

"That was taken, what?  Three years ago now. I must have been about your age from the looks of you. Dad took Jericho and me to Kentucky for the Derby."

Blessing turned and saw the boy from the picture.  Only older.  Taller.  Shoulders broader and the arms and legs looking like they belonged.  But it was the boy from the picture.

The boy never really stopped talking.  He had paused until he saw recognition and then rambled on, "Dad had promised that we would all go to Kentucky.  Of course that was before Jericho turned up lame.  Freak thing.  Not even in a race.  Working with the trainer.  That trainer..."  The boy didn't spit but the pause had.  Even at thirteen Blessing was impressed by that.  The other boy had said the words just so and Blessing, in his mind, had spit at the mention of the trainer.  He tilted his head to the left in appreciation.

The other boy continued, "That bastard wanted to put Jericho down.  The first vet did too.  But Dad found one willing to do the work.  And bend the rules.  In that picture?  Jericho is out of his mind on morphine."  The blond boy smiled from ear to ear.

Blessing found his voice even in the face of that smile.  "How could he race with..."

"Race?  Oh hell, he didn't run at the Derby.  No.  Hell no.  Dad had just promised that we would all go to the derby. And by God, we did.  Dad drank mint juleps until he was fall down drunk and I found his bottle of bourbon until Ginger took it away from me. And ole Jericho was out of his mind on illegal narcotics.  My dad was freaking insane.  But ya gotta love that kind of crazy don't cha?"

Blessing found himself in the glare of that smile again.  And he smiled back.  "Oh.  Sorry.  I haven't introduced myself.  I'm Sebastion Bradshaw.  But my friends call me Bash."

"I'm Ben."  He reached out to take the hand that the blond boy offered.  They shook.  Blessing looked up at him.  He wrinkled his brow.  "Do your friends really call you 'Bash'?"

The blond boy looked him up and down.  Something about him changed just a bit.  Blessing felt it change.  When the blond boy continued his tone was different.  His voice was softer and somehow older.  Ben felt.. something.  He didn't know how or why, but he was now... more... in this boy's eyes.

The blond boy looked at him in silence for a beat and then smiled.  "Maybe its what I wish they would call me."

"What DO they call you?"

"They call me 'Bashful".  Especially the girls.  The name started with the girls actually."

Blessing felt awkward on the boy's behalf.  He knew how an embarrassing name could haunt and torment.  The blond boy must have seen the pity rolling across his face.  Bashful laughed.  "No.  Not like that.  God no.  That would be horrible."

"No.  I'm not at all bashful.  That's what makes the name.  That's why it stuck.  I've never really had a problem talking to girls.  Any girl.  All the girls.  Some of whom can apparently get fairly jealous.  There was a bit of a scandal when two young ladies got in an actual fight over me. The odds against such a fight were astronomical.  A truly historic bit of fisticuffs."  Bashful paused a beat, "One was my history teacher and the other taught physics."

Blessing laughed out loud.  Bashful smiled.

Chapter 24: Sitting Next to Curtis

He had sat next to Curtis Steeridge  in a diner in Mountain View, California.

He sat and listened intently to the slightly tipsy man talk about moving boxes in a warehouse.  Curtis said that he was old school - a label sticker and a box kicker.  A burp of Jack Daniels and he explained that his current team was almost all millennials,  Even so, they had still set records.  He went on to explain that it had always been about giving away credit.  But with millennials?  You had to give each one of them a bit of the credit. And specific credit.  Something peculiar to them.  If you could do that, if you were willing to do that, then a generation vilified for participation trophies would actually do great things.

He listened.  He took it in.  But his situation never left his thoughts.  They still didn't know what he looked like -  exactly.  But they knew enough.  A particularly dark skinned Latino just over six feet. Slim, athletic, and carrying at least one bullet.  But alone.  He was supposed to be alone.

He had smiled at Curtis and nodded and said something encouraging to get him talking again.  They were not looking for two old friends sitting at the bar of a diner.  And it was easier to listen than talk while taking shallow breaths.  He resisted the urge to reach under his arm to feel the stitches.  The veterinarian had been a perfect confluence of character and greed.  The money got her to pull the bullet and replace it with thread and staples.   Her sense of honor had kept her from even thinking of selling him to the people who were now walking bar to bar, restaurant to restaurant looking for him.

Curtis was explaining how structure, accountability was almost always welcomed by those who could excel.  "If you don't define bad, you can never have good.  And if you don't know what good is, how the hell will you ever be able to recognize greatness?  You just gotta have a plan.  What IS success?  What does winning look like?  How do you know when you've won?"

He paid for the man's bill and then for dessert and then for a cup of coffee and then another.   Curtis even thought it had been his idea when he asked his new best friend and patron if he wanted to head over to Bierhaus to continue their conversation over German hops and barley.  Curtis was a good man.  A good talker without running out of words or eager listeners at the popular bar.

They had left the bar and moved on to a strip club.  They eventually sat with Edgar.  Edgar explained that he had his disability check sent straight to the club.  The club cashed it for him and sat up a tab.  They gave him the little bit of money he gave his mother for rent and he sat in his regular booth every day and every night until they closed the place down.  He was like a mascot for the club.

Curtis greeted Edgar with a joke about the blond that was on Edgar's lap.  The three of them laughed almost loud enough to be heard above the music.  Curtis called him over and introduced him to Cindy - Sindy he found out when he went to the pisser and saw her little poster above the urinal.  Back to Edgar.  Edgar offered him his right hand.  Even as he saw it, he was careful to not hesitate to shake it.  And he smiled and over the music loudly said, "Nice to meetcha.  Can I buy you a beer?"

Edgar had smiled back and said, "Naw.  I get beers at cost.  How about I buy you a beer and you by me a dance?"

And so they sat in the booth and Sindy and her friends Asshley with two s's of course (yet another poster) and Honey came over after their sets to snuggle comfortably between the three men.  Edgar finally noticed him staring at his hands.  He held them both up.  On his right hand he waggled the only two fingers there.  There were only two and they were exceptionally long.  It almost looked like they were extensions of two bones in the forearm.  And the thumb far down below from the two fingers.  An afterthought.  The left had three fingers plus another useless thumb.  "It wouldn't be so bad if my name wasn't Edgar frigging Thomas.  And no, I don't love Reese's Pieces either."

Curtis burst out laughing and despite himself and the stitches and the staples, he laughed too.  He called for another round even though his wasn't missing an ounce.  He looked over at Honey and couldn't tell if it had been a tough life or if she was just older than most strippers in the club.  "Honey?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I need you for a little something."

"Bet its not too little," she smiled back at him.

He saw them come through the door.  The bouncers at the door had tried to frisk them and now one of the bouncers had a nose shattered and the other found a boot in his groin and his lunch moving up past his throat.

Before Honey saw, he whispered,"Take me for a private dance."

The noise was obvious after that but Honey couldn't care less.  She had a fish on the hook.  All that mattered was getting him in the boat.  That changed when he had her by the throat.  "How do I get out of here?"  She looked back to the way they came.  "NO!  When the cops come.  When vice decides they need a headline!  Where do you go! Now!"

She never shouted out or shed tear but he did have to grab her hand when it came up with a razor.  He had a full 3 seconds to realize where the folded blade must have been.  It took him another 2 to appreciate the... control that had kept it there for the night.  And yet another second to rule out bringing her with him.

As soon as the razor was on the floor she turned to look at the wall to the far left.  He threw her towards it.  She rolled with the momentum and had popped the hidden door open and was through it and just about to close it on him when he leaped through it.  That was when the first shots fire-crackered back down the hall.  He saw the next door vaguely in the darkness and dove for her ankles. She spilled in front of him and he drug her back to him.

"Don't move.  I can get us out of this alive but you have to do exactly what I say."  She stopped struggling and sat still.  Her eyes were wide.  But she didn't make a sound.  Light flooded down the narrow hall way.  Voices were in the hallway.  Her breathing got quicker and louder.

Two shots.  Two dead.  And he looked back at her and smiled.  "Get us out of here."

The days ran past them.  It took him 9 days to get back to Wetta.  It had turned out that his caution was well founded.  The two men had had colleagues who had proven too smart to be led down a dark and cramped hallway like their fellows.  He had kept the girl with him the whole time and used her again as a decoy when he had found a way to gain the upper hand.  Two days later he felt confident to make his way back to Wetta.

He still had the girl with him in the elevator leading up to the penthouse.  She had been quiet since they walked into the building.  The elevator opened and they turned left and walked down the hall to the wide open living space with the floor to ceiling windows looking out upon Manhattan. And there sat Wetta.  And she smiled with Curtis standing behind her.  "How did he do?"

"He's almost as calculating as you said.  Used me to ferret them out.  Killed them without hesitation.  But he did sleep with me on day four.  Until the door to that elevator opened, I was beginning to think he might not bring me to you.  And by the way, it is such a relief to be out of that strip club.  But it was nice to be ogled again at my age."  Honey - not her real name.

Wetta smiled at her.  And reached to the glass coffee table and held up a small card - a post card.  The picture on the front showed blue bonnets with a caption she could not read but apparently about Texas.  "He mailed this to me.  By the postmark it looks like he mailed it on day three of your little journey."

Honey - not her real name - no longer smiled but looked at him with a little bit of bewilderment and a little bit of respect.  Wetta continued, "Only one line, 'Honey is sweet.'"

Chapter 23: A Desperate Smile

He lay there breathing softly.  Her head rested on his chest in that romantic way.  She snored just above a whisper. He knew that bit of coolness trailing down his side was a thin line of drool.  Movies never showed that.  When she woke she would realize what had happened and would surreptitiously wipe it away from her cheek with her palm.  And he would pretend that he had never noticed and she would pretend that she believed that.

He had been so gentle this time.  There was not a hunger this time.  There was not an urgency.  It had been soft and delicate right up to that brief last moment when it is always savage and wild.  The kisses - their lips - her lips...  The feeling of her kissing him.  The softness of her lips within his and around his and against his.  Slowly and softly and familiar as they always were and strange and electric and teasing as they always were - her lips.

She had told him almost before he could close the door.  He had heard her and understood her and still stood dumbfounded like he had never learned the language she spoke.  She said it again and he had smiled so broadly and so desperately. His eyes had gone wide and the light reflected from them more brightly than a moment before.  He thought he never wanted this. Realization: he had never wanted to want this.  Her words only promised possibility.  Pragmatism held him aware of all  that could still go wrong.  And he damned himself for not being properly lost in this happiness.

She woke as he shivered.  She forgot herself and any embarrassment of sleep.  She marveled at him.  She had never seen this from him.  She had not known this of him.  He sobbed.  Ginger cried.

She reached up to his cheek while softly breathing, "Shhhhhh.  Its going to be alright. Its going to be wonderful.  Its okay.  Its okay."

After missing so many times, he managed to catch himself.  He inhaled deeply... again.  "Its more than okay.  Its a Blessing."