Getting Higher (19 page)

*****

It felt as if something had finally given way, released him after a long tug-of-war. Whatever had been driving Joe, pulling him to Bartlett, and Burger World, and Shelly, had let go. He was free again, free from a binding that he hadn't fully recognized until that day.

He hitchhiked back into town and walked through the downpour to Burger World. Still shirtless, he strolled into the restaurant and quit his job. He said goodbye to Mike and Mr. Stevens and his friends, and joyfully told Mr. Gurney to 'fuck off.' With each move, each word, he felt better and better, more and more relieved. Grinning, he ambled out the door and back into the rain. The managers were raging, and he wasn't allowed to quit without giving a week's notice, but Joe didn't care.

He went to Rocky's apartment, packed a few things in a plastic garbage bag, and left. As he stepped out again into the storm, he felt better than he'd felt for a very long time. He saw his reflection in a shop window, and knew that he'd done the right thing.

And he knew that he was back.

*****

Chapter Thirty

 

Back in Brownstown, it was raining heavily. The sky was roofed with clouds, a solid blanket over every gray inch of the city. The dead, dark smokestacks of Global Steel jutted into the grayness, their outlines blurred as if they were melting candle-like in the downpour. The river was slowly rising, inching its way up the concrete banks as rainwater swelled it. Everything was the same as Joe remembered it, bleak and foreboding as it always seemed to be. It was a dying, dirty place, crumbling daily and washing away in the rusty stream of the Stonybank River.

Despite the dismal nature of the place, Joe exulted as he toured it. At last, he felt like he was home, like he was back where he belonged. Until that day, he hadn't realized how much he'd truly missed the place, and how badly he had wanted to go back. Now, he
was
back, and everything felt right again, felt simple again.

Brownstown wasn't much different from Bartlett, and it certainly wasn't a nicer place to live. The climate was colder and rainier, there were fewer jobs, and the whole town seemed to be rapidly disintegrating. Truly, there wasn't much in Brownstown for Joe to return to: Crank was dead; Joe had no place to stay, and scarcely any friends whom he could depend on; he had no job, no income, and no government checks for assistance. Really, there was nothing for him in Brownstown, no practical reason to go there again. In Bartlett, he'd had Rocky, and Rocky's apartment, and his girlfriend Shelly, and the promise of a high-paying job. Back there, he'd found everything, all that a person should need to be happy.

In Brownstown, he had nothing, yet he'd been drawn there irresistibly. As vacant and negative as the town was, he'd been sucked into it like dust into a vacuum cleaner. He had come not because of any virtues of the place, but because it was the place where he'd grown up, where he'd forged his identity. It wasn't Brownstown that he had missed; it was himself. For a while, in Bartlett, he'd been living a lie, and now he had decided to tell the truth again.

And so, Joe rambled over the sidewalks, blithely inspecting the city as he traveled. He was still shirtless, and his bare, furry chest sparkled with rainwater. He toted his makeshift luggage, the green plastic garbage bag that he had brought, which was stuffed with clothes and some money that he'd earned at Burger World. His beard already looked darker and thicker; in a while, it would be draped below his chin, brushing his neck and chest like before. His hair was still cropped short, though, a final reminder of the life which he had just abandoned. It would take a while for the mane to grow back in, but Joe had lots of time.

As he walked, Joe was smiling, gladdened by the familiar sights around him. Everything appeared to be the same as the day when he'd left it; the streets looked the same, the buildings looked the same, the river was also unchanged. Everything was the same, right down to the gloomy, seeping weather. Joe had only been gone for a few weeks, of course, but somehow, he had thought that the city would be different when he returned. He had only spent a few weeks in Bartlett, but so much had happened to him there that it had seemed like a lot longer.

Joe had arrived in Brownstown only two hours ago. He'd walked out of Rocky's apartment around noon, aiming himself at the Bartlett city limits. After hiking the whole way to the edge of town, he'd marched out onto the highway, Route 219, which would lead him back to Brownstown. He'd then walked and hitchhiked the rest of the way through the rain, and it had taken him several hours to reach the city. Now, he was finally home, strolling along the grimy riverbank at seven o'clock in the evening.

Looking up at a street sign on the corner that he was approaching, Joe noticed that it read "Piedmont Avenue." He chuckled and shook his head; Piedmont was the street on which he and Crank had once lived, and along which Tap's Bar was located. Memories flooded his mind, recollections of the many times that he'd walked along the same street, and of the many things that had happened to him there. He remembered one night when he and Crank had gotten drunk, and had gone out in the middle of the street to play 'chicken' with passing cars. It had only taken one set of screaming tires and a blaring horn to convince them to give up and try something else. Instead of dodging cars, they had then decided to swim in the river; they had stripped off their clothes, jumped into the filthy water, and swam, oblivious to the slime and the stink of that polluted waterway. Crank would do anything if he had enough booze in him, and Joe would just naturally follow along.

To his left, Joe saw something which brought back more memories. It was an old brick building, a few stories tall, with black, scorched splotches in a strip across its face. Since some of the windows in that strip were intact and lit from within, Joe figured that people still lived there. Instinctively, his eyes found a particular window, one that was surrounded by the darkest, most charred brick of all. The glass was still broken from the frame, and the space behind the paneless window was dark; Joe guessed that no one was living in that room, since the landlord still hadn't replaced the window. It was Crank's old place, the one where he and Joe had lived...until the fire.

Smiling, Joe remembered when he'd first moved in. "Okay," Crank had said, "you're in. But only for a week or two, got it? And you gotta' pay your share of food and booze. I ain't takin' in no freeloader." His friend's voice came back to him vividly once more, and Joe again found it hard to believe that he was dead.

As he wistfully looked around, Joe kept walking. Though he felt like going inside to see the old apartment, he knew that he couldn't stop there, couldn't stroll in and look around. He remembered the landlord, Charley Wills, and how much the man had hated him and Crank. If Joe even set foot on the front steps of the building, Wills would probably blow his brains out with a shotgun. Though he was curious about the place, and wondered if Wills had fixed it up at all, Joe didn't want to see it badly enough to risk getting his skull shot to pieces. He kept moving down the sidewalk, memories drifting like soap suds through his mind.

When he had walked a little more, Joe sighted Tap's Bar. The dirty little place squatted across the street, looking as seedy and run-down as it always had. Joe grinned when he saw it, and walked a bit faster. At last, he had come to a place that he could visit, a place where he would still be welcome; he had spent more time there than anywhere else in town, and knew that he could fearlessly go inside and reminisce.

He crossed the street and strode through the door, his heart racing a little in anticipation. When he entered, he realized that everything was unchanged from the last time he'd been there: the tables, the bar, the pool table, the smoke hanging in the air, even Ralphy. The stubby, stubborn bartender looked up as Joe ambled in, and Joe thought that he smiled a little behind his beard. Then, whatever trace of a grin Joe had seen vanished, and the little man's face returned to its normal, irritated scowl.

"Hey, Ralphy," greeted Joe, walking up to the bar. "What's up, man?"

"So, you're back," grunted Ralphy, polishing a glass.

"Yeah," smirked Joe. "I got tired a' the good life, so I came back here. You doin' okay?" He sat on one of the barstools, resting his garbage bag luggage on the floor.

"I guess so," mumbled Ralphy. "You know, things are th' same. You back to stay?"

"Yup," nodded Joe. "Girnme' a draft."

Ralphy stared suspiciously at him from beneath his caterpillar eyebrows. "You cash?" he muttered warily.

"Of
course
, Ralphy!" laughed Joe. "Have you ever known me
not
to be?"

"Yeah, asshole, I
have
," punctured Ralphy. "I wanna' see it first. Then, you get a draft."

Joe pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled one off. Grinning, he slapped it down on the bar in front of Ralphy. "There ya' go. Put it up, pal. I'm thirsty."

Ralphy stared at the money for a moment, then snatched it and jammed it into the cash register. He gave Joe a couple coins in change, then got him a glass of beer. Joe drank it down, relishing the cool liquid as it flowed into his body. Then, he stood up and clunked the empty glass on the bar.

"Well, I'll see ya' tomorrow, Ralphy," he said, hoisting his garbage bag. "Thanks for th' brewski, you fucker."

Ralphy looked up from the glass that he was polishing and glared. "Fuck you," he mumbled.

"Yeah," snickered Joe. "Fuck you, too." Then, he turned and walked back outside into the cold, constant rain. He felt good after the beer, and after seeing Ralphy and Tap's again. Pausing for a moment, he rubbed his beard, gazing at his reflection in the window of the bar.

"Lookin' good," he said to himself, admiring the dark bristles that were starting to cover his chin and cheeks. Nostalgic, relieved, optimistic, he tried to picture Crank in the window beside him. This time, it was easy: without a shirt, with hair on his face and Brownstown all around him, Crank's friend had no trouble imagining him there.

He saw Crank standing there, his big belly rolling with laughter, his red hair wet with the rain. Crank's friend smiled at the silly victory, watching as his memory played upon the glass.

Bartlett was far away, now. Joe felt giddy as he turned from the window, and splashed his feet in a puddle like a child as he started down the street.

*****

Special Preview: Dicks

A
Twisted Comedy

From Robert T. Jeschonek

Now Available

 

Tucker County Courthouse

Melville, Pennsylvania, 9:31 a.m.

"You guys have
made
my
day!
" Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's rich, resonant voice boomed from the judge's bench in the vast main courtroom of the Tucker County courthouse. "
Thank you
for this!"

Simon Bellerophon, who was sitting at the plaintiff's table near the front of the courtroom, smiled. The happier the judge, the better, right?

Then why wasn't Simon's lawyer smiling, too?

Simon frowned as he looked up at Quinn Keegan, his attorney. Quinn was standing beside him, eyes fixed on the judge, face unreadable. He was doing a great job of keeping his feelings under wraps, hiding them even from Simon, who knew him better than anyone.

Because Quinn, after all, was his foster brother. Who better to help launch his mad quest for revenge?

"Your Honor?" Quinn's flinty brown features were silhouetted in the sunlight streaming in from the big arched windows ringing the courtroom walls. Swirling dust formed a halo in the multicolored shaft from the stained glass dome in the cupola overhead.

Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled and flapped a sheet of paper in the air. The crackling flap echoed through the giant, ornate courtroom, which was a remnant of the county's long-gone glory days. Tucker County had been a booming place twenty years ago, before the steel companies had pulled out of Melville, the big-money heart of the region, and shut down all the mills. "You
do
know this is a first-of-its-kind lawsuit, don't you?"

"Yes, your honor." Quinn spoke gracefully, as he always did in court...or anywhere else, for that matter.

"Well,
thank you
for cutting through the boredom!" Judge Bartlebaugh ran a hand up over his smooth, bare scalp and down the back of his silver fringe of hair. "So what's the gist of your argument?"

"We see this as a case of truth in advertising," said Quinn. "Dangers to society should be labeled as such."

Simon straightened in his chair, heart pounding as his brother made the case. There they were, going into battle side by side, kicking ass and taking names.

And the enemy himself sat thirty feet away.

Leaning back in his chair, Simon looked across the courtroom at the defense table. The enemy's enormous, beer-bellied attorney, Delroy Swope, blocked the view...all three hundred ice-cream-suited pounds of him.

As Simon watched, the enemy himself leaned back and met his gaze. With his curly black hair, ruddy, pockmarked face, and wild eyes, he looked like a crazed pirate or a member of the Manson family. His glare caught Simon like hot metal catching skin, radiating waves of pure cherry-red fury. He silently mouthed two unmistakable words in Simon's direction:
Fuck you
.

Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only
Horne Shaw
, so-called claims adjustor for the 5G5 delivery company.

Just then, Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's voice snapped Simon's attention back to the front of the courtroom. "Oh, this is
good
." He chuckled as he stroked his impeccably trimmed silver mustache and beard with his thumb and forefinger. "How can you
not
love this
case
?"

Swope waved his thick arms and shook his head. "First of all, it's pure defamation, Your Honor..."

"The question was
rhetorical
." Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled. "But hey, great reaction time!"

Without another word, Swope dropped into his chair.

"Mr. Fluff-and-Fold!" Suddenly, Judge Bartlebaugh swung his gaze back to Simon. "This started over a
washing
machine
, right?"

"Yes, Your Honor," said Simon.

"So what if Strayer-Roland gives you a new
washing machine
?" said Judge Bartlebaugh. "Could we make this case go away?"

"No, Your Honor." Simon said it without hesitation. "There's a principle involved."

"Oh, good." Judge Bartlebaugh rubbed his hands together briskly. "And what principle is that?"

"People should have the right to know when they're dealing with someone like him." Simon hiked a thumb in Horne's direction. "They shouldn't have to find out the hard way, after the fact."

"'Caveat emptor,' Your Honor." Swope wobbled to his feet. "'Let the buyer beware.' That's what
we
say."

Judge Bartlebaugh rolled his eyes. "I never would have guessed."

"Motion to dismiss this frivolous lawsuit, Your Honor," said Swope.

"
Is
it frivolous?" Judge Bartlebaugh raised his eyebrows at Simon. "You don't want a new washing machine. You don't want money. You don't want any form of compensation for the damages you've suffered."

"Correct, Your Honor," said Simon.

Judge Bartlebaugh grinned and shook his head. "You just want the court to acknowledge officially that the defendant, Horne Shaw..."

"...is a
dick
." Simon nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."

"A dick," said Judge Bartlebaugh. "As in a person of low character."

"I see it as doing a service for society," said Simon.

"I think it's our
duty
to identify people like him."

"Your Honor, I ask again that you dismiss this most
frivolous
lawsuit." Swope combed pork sausage fingers through his shock of wavy white hair. "Suing to have my client branded a
dick
is an extraordinary abuse of both the court's
time
and the county's
money
."

Judge Bartlebaugh smirked. "You want to talk about abusing
time
?" He tapped his desk with an index finger. "Try sitting up here day after day dealing with one boring
drug arrest
or
property line beef
after another. This
dick
case is a breath of fresh air!"

"We will demonstrate that this suit has
significant
merits, Your Honor," said Quinn. "We seek an injunction under the public nuisance statute. We will prove that Mr. Shaw is a
nuisance
to the
public
, and as such, deserving of regulation."

Judge Bartlebaugh unwrapped a hunk of pink bubble gum and popped it into his mouth. "The statute was written with
other
nuisances in mind. Are you comparing Mr. Shaw to a
strip mine
or
hog farm
?"

"If the shoe fits." Simon said it just loud enough for Quinn to hear.

But Quinn gave no sign he'd heard. "Mr. Shaw fits the very
definition
of public nuisance. He is offensive and annoying to the people of this community and others."

"Your Honor..." said Swope.

Quinn wouldn't let him interrupt. "Mr. Shaw actually
exceeds
the definition under the statute. Not only is he offensive and annoying, but he actively causes
pain
and
suffering
on a regular basis."

"
Bullshit!
" Face flushed, Horne popped up out of his chair.

Swope pushed him back down. "I object to Mr. Keegan's characterization of my client!"

"In
ten years
as a claims adjustor for 5G5 Delivery," said Quinn, "how many claims has Mr. Shaw paid out?"

"That is not relevant," said Swope.

"
Zero
." Quinn returned his gaze to Judge Bartlebaugh. "He has never paid
one penny
to a customer."

"Objection!" Swope's ample jowls jiggled with rage.

"And you
know
it's not because there weren't any
damages
in ten years." Quinn spread his arms wide. "It's a furniture and appliance
delivery company
, for heaven's sake."

Simon got a chill up his spine. Listening to Quinn when he hit his stride was hardcore stirring. He was like a super-hero in a black pinstripe suit and red tie.

"You will
see
, if you give us the chance," said Quinn, "that Mr. Shaw is
at best
a nuisance and
at worst
a genuine
threat
to the public good."

Judge Bartlebaugh narrowed his eyes. "But the injunction specifically says
dick
. How do you plan to prove he's not just a
nuisance
, but a
dick
?"

Quinn held up a sheaf of papers. "We have signed affidavits from dozens of people supporting our..."

"Yes, but it's subjective." Judge Bartlebaugh rocked back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, chewing his gum as he spoke. "We might as well call him a
fuckwad
or a
shit-for-brains
."

"
Hey!
" said Shaw.

"Your Honor..." said Quinn.

"Why not change the complaint?" said Judge Bartlebaugh. "Leave out the 'dick' part."

Quinn stared at Simon with special intensity. The truth was, Quinn had hated the "dick" concept from the get-go and had tried many times to talk Simon out of it.

But the answer was still the same.

"That would be missing the point," said Simon.

Quinn stared so hard, he looked like his eyeballs were about to pop out.

"He's a total
dick
." Simon hiked a thumb toward Horne. "People should
know
."

Judge Bartlebaugh cracked his gum and got up from his chair. "All right then. The elements of the case are clear to me. It's been fun, but now we're done."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Swope closed his leather-bound notebook with a
crack
that echoed through the cavernous courtroom and grinned over at Simon and Quinn. "So pleased we could reach this result."

As Judge Bartlebaugh started down the steps behind the bench, Simon slumped. He'd known the lawsuit was a long shot, but he was still disappointed at the outcome. Even without a win, he'd hoped to have a little more time to make his point in a public forum. A little more time to get back at that dick Horne Shaw. But now, all his high hopes for revenge zoomed away at once like pigeons from a gunshot.

And then zoomed right back.

"See you Monday, everyone." Judge Bartlebaugh waved on his way through the door to his chambers.

"Huh?" Startled, Simon turned to Quinn, who looked equally startled.

"But you said we were
done
here!" said Swope.

"Done for the
weekend
." Judge Bartlebaugh blew a bubble, then popped it and sucked the gum back into his mouth. "No
way
am I dismissing
this
case!"

With that, he slammed the door shut behind him.