Grundish & Askew (2 page)

At the end of his first day at Straight, Inc., Flannigan stuffed his fingers down the back of Grundish’s jeans and his thumb through the back belt loop. With a tight grip on the back of the pants, and one hand clasping onto one of Grundish’s arms, Flannigan walked Grundish out to the parking lot of the rehab. He stuck Grundish in the back seat, closed the door, and got into the driver’s seat.

Fixing his rearview mirror on Grundish’s face, Flannigan told him, “Don’t even try to escape from the car. The child locks are on, and the only way out is through me.” Grundish could see Flannigan’s mouth in the mirror. He had a smile like a mouthful of broken gravel. The smell from the rotting teeth, like the breath of a sick dog, permeated the car. Despite his tough talk, Flannigan was terrified at the thought of having to try to keep the big kid in his back seat from escaping. There was something in the demeanor that told Flannigan he didn’t stand a chance if Grundish wanted out.

“Don’t worry,” mumbled Grundish, “I ain’t got nowhere to go. It’s here or juvee. I figure I’m better off putting in my time here. I get to live in a house, eat nice home cooked meals, and sleep in a clean bed. Whatta we have to do? Go into that building everyday and listen to them preach to us about the evils of drugs? Drugs are bad, MMM-kay? I get it. I’ll do my six months here, keep my mouth shut, stay out of trouble, and go home.”

“Oh-ho-ho no,” laughed Flannigan. “It doesn’t work like that. This is a six month minimum program. That’s minimum. And there’s only been one guy who has completed the program in six months. Most of the kids here take at least a year to graduate. There are guys that have been here for over four years.”

That night Grundish and Flannigan were locked into Flannigan’s bedroom. The plywood that was nailed over the outside of the windows kept out all of the natural light. The windows and closet door were bolted shut. When the bedroom door was closed, Mrs. Flannigan locked it with a deadbolt so that Grundish could not get out. Mrs. Flannigan was nice enough. She told Grundish to call her
Mom
. That just didn’t seem right, though. He had a mom with whom he was perfectly happy and not looking to replace.

His first day in group, Grundish was disappointed to learn that he was actually expected to participate in the discussions. When he had nothing to say, they made him stand up while different members of the group yelled at him. One pimple-faced, chipped-toothed thirteen-year-old stood directly in front of Grundish, poking him in the chest and screaming: “You need to get honest. You’re a hurting little boy who is crying on the inside. You, Sir, have a drug problem. If you don’t deal with it, you are going to end up either dead or in prison.”

“No. I ain’t got no drug problem,” Grundish said. It was true. He smoked a little bit of weed now and again and sometimes used the harder stuff if he was partying and somebody wanted to share their stash. But, Grundish was not chemically dependent. “I’m just here so I don’t have to stay in juvee.”

The chairs erupted in a sea of flailing arms. They called it motivating. In order to get called on, the kids shook their arms spastically above their heads until the group leader would shout out somebody’s name. “Ken,” the bearded leader strutting in front of the group shouted, “What do you think of this little bop coming into our group and disrespecting us like this?” Grundish didn’t even know what a bop was but he gathered it was a slam.

A skinny kid with a bad hair cut and a bubbling eruption of acne on his cheeks ran across the room and stood inches away from Grundish, looking up into his face and crying. “You are a fucked up guy and you know it. You’re just as bad as me. When I was out there using, I would suck a cock just so I could get my fix. I didn’t even like the taste of cock. I just needed my drugs. I can tell that you’ve sucked a cock just to get high. How does that make you feel to know you swallowed cum just so you could get high?” Ken just stood there in front of Grundish, shaking, crying, and staring up into his face.

“I ain’t never sucked a dick,” Grundish answered the hysterical cock sucker, real slow and low. Looking down at Ken’s teary snot-glazed face, all Grundish could think was
I’m gonna snap this faggot’s neck if he tries to touch me.
As if sensing his thoughts, Ken backed off and sat down.

Again the chairs shook on the floor and arms waved frantically in the air. Person after person stood up and screamed at Grundish. One after another they confessed their sickest acts and accused Grundish of having done the same: I shot my mother up and ate her out while she was unconscious; I killed a rabbit; I fucked my sister; I stuck a hair brush up my ass; I used to eat garlic so I would fart while my boyfriend fucked me up the ass; I worshiped Satan; I cursed God; I worked in a grocery store and used to piss in the pickle barrel; I used to beat off constantly until I came blood in the sink; I tried to kill myself; I cut myself; me and my friends used to jack my dog off and we were so fucked up in our heads that we thought it was funny; I hated my parents; I hated the world; I hated myself. Somehow they all thought that Grundish had done the same things. It wasn’t so.

These are some of the most fucked up people I have ever seen
, thought Grundish. Sure, Squid claimed that he fucked a horse, but, Grundish never believed him. Each and every one of the deviants in the rehab was credible, though.
This isn’t a drug rehab
, he thought,
this is a fucking psyche ward
. It was on that first day that Grundish realized he would never make it through the program.

Two weeks into the stay at Straight, Inc., a new patient was brought before the group. Everybody but Grundish knew him. Everyone was pissed off. They all screamed at him as he stood still, smiling a beautiful happy smile, like he was in a better place. A place where people weren’t inches in front of his face with their sour breath, calling him names. The kid’s name was Buddy and he ran away from the program. Buddy was a big kid, too. The staff decided that Grundish wasn’t going to be a problem and sent Buddy home that night to the Flannigan house.

On the way home, Buddy and Grundish sat in the back of Flannigan’s car. “Hey, man, what’s your story?” Buddy asked Grundish and smiled that big goofy smile of his.

“Hey, stop talking back there!” Flannigan ordered. “You know the rules, Buddy. You guys are not supposed to be talking to each other.”

“Fuck you, Flannigan. What’re you gonna do about it?” Buddy challenged.

“I’m gonna turn around, take you back to the building, and have you put in a time out room for a week,” said Flannigan.

“Good,” laughed Buddy, “that way I won’t have to see your stupid snaggle-tooth face.” Buddy turned to Grundish, “Seriously, what’s your story? You don’t look like a queer, or a fucked up junkie like most of the losers in group.”

Grundish just shrugged. It was a talent he had, shrugging and not answering. He didn’t much see the point in getting involved with Buddy’s rebellion. He immediately liked Buddy but didn’t want any trouble.
Just do your time and get out
, he thought.

“You know you’re not getting out of here unless you tell them what they want to hear,” Buddy said.

“Shut up, Buddy!” Flannigan yelled. “You’re in enough trouble already. Don’t make it worse.”

“I’ve been in here for two years now, and I don’t see myself being done with it until I’m eighteen and can sign myself out. You won’t get out of here unless you play the game. Oh,” Buddy mocked, “I was so fucked up and hated myself so much that I sucked a badger’s cock. Please help me because I can’t help myself. I’m powerless over drugs and need a higher power to help me. Wahhhh. I hate myself. Wahhhh, wahhhh, wahhh, fucking WAHHHH!”

“You know what we should do?” Buddy continued, nudging Grundish with his elbow. “We should toss fat boy Flannigan out of this old station wagon and get the fuck out of here. Just go out on the road for a while. You’re not gonna get out of this program otherwise. They don’t let you out. They keep you here until your parents’ insurance payments dry up or you become an adult and sign yourself out.”

A nervous laugh escaped Flannigan. “Stop fucking around Buddy. If you want to sink down to rock bottom... well, fine...but don’t drag this guy down with you.”

“Do yourself a favor,” Buddy said to Grundish, ignoring Flannigan. “Get the fuck out of here. It’ll do nothing but mess your head, and real bad, too. Let’s overtake this fat piece of shit in the front seat and split.”

Again it was clear to Grundish. He wasn’t going to make it through the program. He didn’t have the ability to convince them that he had a drug problem. He didn’t and he wasn’t going to play their game. He could do some short time in juvee and be out, an all-around better deal than spending two years in a warehouse having people yell at him, call him names and accuse him of every sexual perversion imaginable. Grundish didn’t even know what docking
^[4]
was, but he was accused of doing it.

“All right,” Grundish said. “I am getting out of here but I’m not running away. I just want to go to juvee to do my time. But, I’ll help you, Buddy. I like you. Fuck it.” Grundish leaned up over the driver’s seat and grabbed Flannigan by the neck. With one hard tug he tore Flannigan away from the steering wheel and dragged him into the back seat. Buddy jumped up over the front seat and yanked the steering wheel, cutting the car out of the way of the oncoming traffic. In the backseat Flannigan struggled against the half-nelson Grundish had locked on him. With the car pulled over on the side of the road, Buddy jumped out, opened the back door and helped drag the flailing Flannigan out of the family cruiser.

“Dump him on the ground and let’s split in his car,” Buddy yelled at Grundish.

“No,” grunted Grundish, holding a headlock tight on Flannigan. “Take the keys to the car, lock the doors, and get out of here on foot. I’m not going to be a part of a grand theft auto. I’ll hold him long enough for you to get out of here.”

Buddy snatched the keys out of the car, locked the doors, and ran off into the woods while Flannigan continued to struggle against the pure muscle clamped around his neck. When Buddy was out of sight, Grundish released Flannigan, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sorry, man. Now go get the pigs so that they can help you with your car and take me back to juvee.” Grundish lay down on the hood of the station wagon and waited for Flannigan to return with the cops.

When he got back to juvee, Grundish got another tattoo, a heart with
Mom
written across it. Nothing original, but it was sincere. Squid was still there and had updated his equipment. Instead of the needle and ink, he now had a contraption made out of a cassette player motor, a guitar string, and various other random parts. The new equipment allowed Squid to put more detail into his work.

Midway through the piece, Squid stopped the makeshift tattoo gun and asked, “you know that shit I told you about fucking a horse?”

“Yeah.”

“It ain’t true,” Squid said, grinning sheepishly. “I was just kind of fucking with your head.”

Grundish shrugged his shoulders and sat still so Squid could finish the heart.

•  •  •

His first time in prison, Grundish didn’t know what to expect. Despite all of his talk, he was scared. Despite his size, he didn’t want to have to have to fight. Grundish could trade blows on the street if he had to and usually came out better than the other guy. Still, there is something about being the new fish that can scare the shit out of the toughest guys. Grundish had an instinct for surviving, though. Somehow he knew to stay away from the screws that caused people trouble. He knew when to stand his ground and when to walk away from other inmates. He didn’t run his mouth or talk shit. Mostly he was quiet.

Grundish wasn’t thieving, violent, mean, or evil. He didn’t rape babies or beat up elderly people. That’s not how he ended up in prison. He didn’t rob people. He didn’t hurt people who didn’t deserve hurting. He just liked stuff. More specifically, he liked other people’s stuff. He liked to borrow their stuff. He liked to use their stuff.

Grundish liked stuff. And there were several ways to get stuff. Grundish could have gotten a job, worked hard, saved money, and bought some stuff. That was for suckers. As with most of his life decisions, Grundish took the easy way. With a keen instinct for determining a luxury-laden house where the residents were on vacation or gone for the weekend, Grundish would squat in an opportune dwelling for a day or two. He would sometimes invite Askew along. They would order pay-per-view porn. They would gorge themselves on the best food in the freezer and the most expensive liquor in the house. Grundish might take one or two nice items that he liked. If there was an expensive suit, he would take it and wear it a couple of times and then give it to a homeless person. When he was done with a house, he would find the photo albums or something else of obvious sentimental value and set it out on the kitchen counter with a note saying something like
this is all that matters.

Grundish was good at his career. But he still got caught sometimes. Whenever he did, the victims would testify at his sentencing that he made them reconsider what really mattered in their lives. They always asked the judge to be lenient. As a result, Grundish never served a sentence of more than a year. Each time he was sent up, Grundish got more ink: a soaring eagle across his back...
FUCK
on the knuckles of his left hand,
KILL
on the knuckles of his right...a rose and a dagger on the palm of his hand
^[5]
...
born to lose
on his neck...a fire-breathing dragon on his right forearm.

During his final stint in the joint, Grundish made himself a promise. He was never going back to prison. It’s not that he made an oath to do no wrong. He simply decided that maybe Askew always had the right idea: just don’t get caught. So on the day that he was granted parole for the last time, Grundish made a vow never to get caught with his figurative pants down again.

The apple core flies through the air as if in slow motion. Grundish’s reflexes, catlike and precise, react well before his brain gathers what is happening. With the fruit refuse hurtling its way on a collision course with his head, Grundish leaps back and swats the gnarled
malus sylvestris
with his arrow-shaped
HOMES NOW AVAILABLE
sign. Once the offending apple is sauced with a powerful slap of the sign, Grundish’s mind catches up with his body and takes account of the incident.
They just threw an apple at me. I’m going to fuck up those rich little brats one of these days
, he thinks, wiping the apple sauce on the grass. This time he got a good look at the driver, with his stringy blond hair and skeevy little mustache. The image is securely filed away in a subfolder of his brain labeled
Payback
.