The Trouble Way (5 page)

I
’ve known a lot of people over the years. Most of them aren’t too important. I’ll let you decide for yourself, but I think that nearly all of them are nuts. There aren’t many of them that I still know. They were people who were just passing through, if you know what I mean. They were nice ‘n’ all, most of them, but they just passed through and went on their silly ways. A few weren’t nuts, maybe two, or three. Any more than that would be a stretch.

This is how nice Bella is. She sat on my lap for the entire CD of Willie Nelson
’s Greatest Hits. She’s four! We sat there in front of my computer listening for about an hour.

Bella showed me a new trick, how she could tap her toe to the music. She
’d just realized she could do that and was really proud of it. She showed me how she could do it with either foot and she did it all the way through “Good Hearted Woman.” Somewhere in the middle of the CD she pulled my head down and said, “I love you Papa.” Now there is a bullet point of life I want to remember forever.

She likes
“Railroad Lady” the best and made me play it several times. My favorite Willie Nelson song was “On the Road Again.” Not any more, that’s second now.

Bella is an expert in creating memories, for true. I wonder if she would like Leonard Cohen. I sure hope so.

Bella has a knack for making a person remember what she says. Not long ago, she was sitting on my lap as I was reading her a Dr. Seuss story, “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins,” I think. She had to go potty and she put her hand on the page and looked up at me and said, “Pause it.” She jumped down and scurried off down the hall.

One of the people who isn
’t nuts is Priscilla, my cousin and now my wife. She’s the tall girl I rode bareback on the pony with when I was nine or ten. Hell, it’s hard to remember that far back. I remember the pony and I remember Priscilla, for sure. At the time, I knew the pony a lot better than I knew Priscilla. I just don’t remember ages and stuff like that. It was “a yong, yong, yong time ago,” as Bella says. She has a hard time with her “L’s.” Her “S’s” too. Priscilla gives me lots of really good memories too.

As hard as I try, there
’s one person whose memory is impossible to shake. It’s Janis. She’s the lunatic I eloped with to Idaho two steps out of high school. She made sure of that she made an impression on me. Maybe it’s the scars from the steak-knife wounds that made the impression. But, I keep trying. I should probably just give up. I didn’t want to even say anything about her but I guess that tells you something about her. Of course, I guess that says something about me too. She’s another one who has the ability to create lasting memories.

I took the three dollars I didn
’t deserve and I married a lunatic. I didn’t deserve that either. Maybe I am a shit-ass, or, more accurately, a stupid shit-ass.

But then, Bella came along and made everything alright. I give her the whole candy bar. But then, she gives some back to me, as much as I want. She didn
’t even know Ma.

I suspect Bella
’s mom, Polly, is jealous of me and Priscilla. Whenever I babysat Bella, and Polly showed up to pick her up, Bella would hear the door open and immediately shoot off and hide. Sometimes she hid behind the floor-length curtains in the living room. Or, if she had time, she would run to the bedroom and hide under the comforter on the bed. She absolutely hated to leave with her mom. She cried nearly every time her mom showed up to take her home -- and I watched Bella for nearly five years. It came to the point where I would have to prep Bella a few minutes before Polly showed up. I’d tell her to “be sure you run to your mommy and give her a hug.” Sometimes she would, but more likely, she would hide and then cry when discovered. Her body would turn limp, like a baby does when they want down, when she was forced to put her jacket and shoes on. It came to the point of Polly would become very rough with Bella when Polly was ready to go. She’d grab her and quickly hustle her out the door, giving Priscilla and me a perfunctory goodbye. I always wondered just how rough her mom was with her at home. I know that Bella dreaded going home -- there’s something going on there -- I am a bit unnerved about that.

I don
’t feel good about some of the men Polly dated. One in particular, an aspiring undertaker who also happened to be a three-timer who stayed overnight quite often.

He
’s the fellow who Bella said she saw his “long pointy thing.” She had to use the potty and went into the bathroom.

“
He didn’t even lock the door,” Bella said. “He is supposed to lock the door … Mommy said.”

Polly dumped him because of the infidelities, not because Bella mentioned seeing his
“pointy thing.”

Polly seems to have exceedingly low self-esteem.

“When I was thirteen, my stepdad said I had boobs that looked like bananas,” She’d told Priscilla. “He laughed; I cried all night.”

Her esteem issues could possibly explain the exceedingly obese or exceedingly unwholesome looking characters she seems to habitually attract. None were particularly adept at social intercourse.

The wanna-be undertaker showed up late for Thanksgiving and missed dinner. He had the balls to ask if he could take some turkey home to eat for his lunch the next day. Priscilla and I had never met the guy before then. It didn’t seem to embarrass Polly in the least.

I get the impression Polly thinks Bella loves Priscilla and me more than she does her. I think that too. Maybe that is what caused Polly to do what she did. It is still way too difficult to talk about.

Polly has strange deductive reasoning skills. She seems unable to compromise or even make up her mind about the simplest things. She just says that she has come to an “impasse” on whatever she couldn’t convince someone of her point of view, as absurd at it most often is. I had several disagreements with Polly and she would always come to the opposite conclusion that most anybody else would come to.

She thinks it was not important to be on time. She is never, and I mean, never, on time for anything. Her lateness cost her three successive jobs; one was menial but the second was in her chosen field, nursing, and the third, nursing related. She said she had reached an impasse with her bosses. They wanted her at work on time and she was unable to see why being ten or fifteen minutes late was as important as they were making it out to be. She couldn
’t fathom that hospitals were a business and had salary expenses that must be considered. For those three jobs, they ceased to worry about salary expense as far as she was concerned; they fired her.

She told me in all seriousness,
“I just can’t be on time. I’ve tried but I just can’t do it. It’s just who I am.”

I
’m thinking it must have something to do with her mental disorder.

Early
1970’s

Mr. Hedd had his Chevy detailed at the Hand Car Care the day before any DM visit. Gordy, the one handed manager certainly hadn
’t lost his sense of humor when he lost his hand in Vietnam. He named his business “Hand Car Care.”

“
Another visit by your DM?” Gordy said when Mr. Hedd drove onto the lot and walked over to Gordy who was putting the finishing touches on detailing a big, shiny, black Cadillac. Two men in sweat-shirts and blue jeans handed Gordy a few bills, smiled at Mr. Hedd, and gave him a brief nod and then got into the spotless, new Caddy and sped off.

“
Looks like your are getting a better class of customers,” Mr. Hedd said, watching the sedan pull out.

“
Yeah, they’ve been in a few times. New to the area,” Gordy said, nodding to the disappearing car.

“
Well, have to keep the bastard happy,” Mr. Hedd said. “Ol’ Braunswine is due in later this week. He’s is costing me a butt-load on car care but I can’t complain, you do a great job.”

Hand Car Care was not cheap, but even with one hand, Gordy was a damn sight better than any of his two handed competitors, at least the ones Mr. Hedd had gone to. Of course, there would be watermarks on the car by morning, it seemed to rain in Seattle constantly, but he had no control of the weather.

A few days later, when he emptied the accumulation his chain smoking habit of butts from the ashtray on his way to work, tossing them from the window, it elicited an angry honk from the old biddy behind him at the stop light. People seemed to be getting more edgy about littering. Christ, if I’d emptied the ashtray while I was moving, I’d have a back seat covered in ashes. Jesus, lady, what the fuck? The light changed to go and he touched his nose with his middle finger as though he were tipping his hat to a beautiful lady. So long, sweetheart.

It was a required security precaution and his ritual to drive around the building before entering the store every day he arrived at work. He was looking for anything that was awry
, to see if there might be anyone lurking around the building that should not be there. If there were, it was not his job to confront them but to notify the police. If he were to see anything suspicious, he was not to enter the store but was to drive to the nearest phone and call the police. In the case of this store, the nearest phone was at a twenty-four hour gas station a quarter mile south on Delridge Way.

To date, he had only one occasion to make a call, but it was not after checking the rear of the store. It occurred shortly after he had opened the store and customers were wandering in. It became evident no such call would be made, at least when the demand for such a call was greatest. It was obvious because of what happened when two well-dressed men greeted him near the stockroom and inquired if he were the manager, Mr. Hedd.

“Yes sir. How about this Seattle weather?” he said, noticing the expensive London Fog raincoats they each wore.

“
Hello Mr. Hedd.” the taller of the two said, bending to look at his nametag.

“
Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Mr. Smith and this is my associate Mr. Jones,” the tall man said with a gracious smile, offering his hand.

“
What can I do for you gents?” Mr. Hedd said shaking Mr. Smith’s hand.

As Mr. Jones offered his hand, Mr. Smith turned to the side and reached under his raincoat and pulled out a Winchester 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun.

Mr. Hedd caught sight of it and dropped Mr. Jones’s hand and when he looked back at Mr. Jones, found himself looking at the matching shotgun also in Mr. Jones’s hands who gingerly touched the muzzle to Mr. Hedd’s paunch. His legs momentarily turned to the consistency of Mac and Cheese pasta.

“
We’re interested in fabric, Mr. Hedd, specifically a blend of cotton and linen fibers. More specifically your assortment seventy-five percent cotton and twenty-five percent linen blend, of the grey-green color, if it is not too much trouble.”

“
I’m sure I have exactly what you are looking for,” Mr. Hedd said when he regained some rigidity to his legs. “How about I show our fine selection of currency?”

“
Perfect,” Mr. Smith said.

They displayed handsome smiles that went perfectly with their London Fogs and Mr. Hedd escorted them to the main office as if they were clothing reps.

The entire transaction took ten minutes max. The three left the office manager and the cash office associate laying face-down on the tile floor.

“
Good morning,” Myrna said. She was oblivious to the quiet transaction that took place only a few feet, and within perfect view of where she was busy tabulating an order on her adding machine, had she the sense to look up through the book-rack of order books separating the main office and her merchandise office.

“
Good morning, the three said in unison, and the three walked toward the exit.

Mr. Hedd
’s last glimpse of the two, after he escorted them to the rear of the store and out the receiving door, was when they bound over the fence where a shiny black Cadillac was idling at the curb. He almost felt sorry for the second fellow when his handsome London Fog got snagged on a nail protruding from the fence.

“
Fix your fence, Mr. Hedd. I thought you were a better manager than this. Where’s your Goddamn damn pride?” Mr. Jones hollered back as he scrambled to the idling car.

“
Dwight, get a damn hammer and fix that fence,” Mr. Hedd said instinctively to his receiving manager before he realized he was taking directions from a man whose recent actions were about to bring further grief to him as soon as Mr. Braunswine was informed of the robbery. In the stress of the moment, nobody noticed the license number of the spotless Caddy.

The thought crossed his mind that possibly the thieves had been in management at some point. The Cadillac was so spotlessly clean, he wondered if they might use the same car wash, Hand Car Care, that he used at least once a week. Sometimes twice if he were aware of a district manager visit. He
’d wished he’d paid closer attention to the two gents at Gordy’s several days before. He’d have to remember to tell the police when they arrived. Have them question Gordy from Hand Car Wash. He wasn’t sure, but it may have been the two he saw on a recent visit to Gordy’s.

Mr. Hedd sprinted to the edge of the parking lot and witnessed the two immaculately dressed gentlemen in the Caddy hit the on-ramp to the freeway. They were heading toward Seattle within seconds of jumping the fence with their haul of seventeen thousand dollars, the bank deposit from the day before waiting for the armored car pickup.

Mr. Hedd did a mental calculation of two dapper thief’s hourly wage. It would be fifty-one thousand dollars each for the actual heist. He was not counting the planning stages. When he had time to ponder it, he almost wished he could have offered them a resume. The take in a three-way split would be thirty-four thousand dollars an hour. Still damn respectable.

At the very least, he wished the sales reps he encountered were half as efficient.

The single benefit of the encounter was the congratulations he received for his calm response to the calamity from his thankful employees. Nobody was hurt.

That particular unpleasant encounter was nearly a year ago but he thought about it on every one of his daily inspection tours of the exterior.

On his tours, he looked for household trash, empty beer bottles, or fast food trash that might have been dumped or had blown in by the wind. He kept a keen eye for contraband, items stashed by employees to be picked up later.

The single biggest problem occurred following the Christmas season. Discarded Christmas trees, sometimes he counted up to thirty, littered the area behind the store the week after New Year
’s Day. Rarely were any put in the dumpster; usually they were tossed helter-skelter next to the building, creating an enormous fire hazard, not to mention the equally enormous expense to dispose of the trees. One year, a dried-out tree decorated with tinsel but without a single needle was standing perfectly erect near the building the first week of May, still in its red and green metal tree stand.

High on his list of things to watch for were weeds. The district manager, Mr. Braunswine, had a dandelion up his ass about weeds. If a single blade of grass grew in the cracks against the building or in the pavement, in Braunswine
’s opinion, it showed lack of pride in a manager’s ability to manage not only expenses but also the physical plant. Braunswine was always referring to the building as the “physical plant.” Mr. Hedd stopped the Chevy and got out to pull a dandelion from near a downspout and continued his slow cruise around the building.

A dumpster sat next to one of several emergency exits near the loading dock. He stopped the car and shined his flashlight on the dumpster; a glint of a reflection of some object caught his eye. Mr. Hedd put the Chevy in reverse and aimed his headlights on the dumpster and got out. Bending to get a better look, he shined the flashlight into the shadows of the metal bracket where the forklift forks went to pick up the dumpster and spotted a stack of audiocassette tapes. He looked around but the early morning darkness was quiet. He reached in and pulled out six cassettes. All the cassettes were in their factory packaging. Someone, in all likelihood an employee, had stowed them in the dumpster
and either forgot or had not had the opportunity to retrieve them. He pulled them out, walked back to his car, slid behind the wheel, and put the tapes on the seat. He continued around the building and parked in the designated employee area near the far end of the parking lot. Mr. Hedd scooped up all but one tape, a Glen Campbell tape he was planning on buying. Hell, three bucks ain’t going to make any difference to Big Dick. He put the Campbell tape under a copy of Discount Store News which he subscribed for the sole purpose of window dressing. In his opinion, it was a complete waste of time. He never read a single article in the magazine. He knew that the DM would be looking into his car and seeing it there would be a subtle plus in his favor in Braunswine’s eyes. He slid the remaining tapes into his jacket pocket and walked to the entrance where he used the alarm key to deactivate the burglar alarm and proceeded to the entrance door. The key went into the lock about half way.

“
Goddamned sonofabitch.”

Before he realized what he was doing, he had forced the key and realized he had just jammed whatever was in the lock soundly into the mechanism. He knew exactly what had happened. Some bastard jammed the lock. The last time it happened, the locksmith found the wood and lead of a pencil point broken off inside the lock. Forcing the key only made the matter worse. There would be another expense on his monthly report for lock repair, the second in a month. The last incident cost a hundred-twenty bucks. That bastard Braunswine would question him about his control of expenses when he looked at that entry on the expense report.

That crazy fucker used a yardstick to fish out pennies that may have rolled under the office safe.

“
What I tell ya, Hedd?” Braunswine beamed when he slid out a dime and a few pennies from under the safe on one occasion.

Didn
’t the bastard even consider that the cost in labor hours vastly exceeded the pennies recovered?

At Braunswine
’s hourly rate of pay, he probably cost the company twenty bucks in labor to save the twenty-seven cents he recovered.

“
When you send out the ten self-addressed refund verification postcards each week,” Braunswine said explaining another of his idiotic ideas, “peel off the un-cancelled postage stamp from those returned with incorrect address to glue to new postcards you send out.”

The guy
’s a goddamned blithering idiot.

Over two-hundred dollars in lock repairs in a month would not be a plus when it came time for his personal evaluation.

Mr. Hedd was positive he knew who was fucking with his locks. It had to be one of the male employees. He just wasn’t sure exactly which one. He had heard some of the employees calling him a disparaging name. He’d overheard one of the employees calling him “Ol’ Pecker Head” in the men’s room when they didn’t realize he was in one of the stalls. They all had a good yuck over that. He couldn’t be sure who was the one called him that; there were three or four employees in there and he wasn’t about to confront them through the stall door with his trousers around his ankles.

“
It never occurred to me that a manager even used the can,” a surprised garden shop employee once said when Mr. Hedd emerged from a stall. “It’s kinda freaky.”

It wasn
’t the first time he’d heard the nickname; classmates in junior high were the first to come up the cruel name. He’d gone home crying more than once over their name-calling, telling his mother that he hated his big fat nose. He was well aware that the name-calling boys thought it looked like a dick.

He knew that once a manager lost the employee
’s respect, managing the store became progressively more difficult. He had seen signs of that happening to him. A prime example was the pencil in the door lock incident. He made a mental note to make an example of the first one he caught disrespecting him, male or female. He had to nip that bullshit in the bud.