Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (10 page)

“So my job now is—?”

“To draw fire. Like when a fighter jet dumps metallic chaff and incendiary decoys to lure away surface-to-air missiles.”

“I’m chaff?”

“Chaff.”

“Is that good?”

“Pays well. That’s as good as it gets.”

J
OHN MILTON HAD A REALLY BAD JOB
.

Everyone kept telling John this. Guys who tarred roofs in Miami in July told him. So did drainage workers in septic tanks. And the people who fixed downed power lines in the rain. And airport cavity searchers. And the team that travels as the Harlem Globetrotters’ opponents. And a new
Star Trek
character without a speaking part who beams down to the hostile planet with Kirk, Spock and Bones…they all kept saying the same thing: “John, have you got a really bad job!”

John was a substitute teacher at a public school.

John tried to make the best of it, but it was hard to reach students when they were tampering with ankle monitors.

John lived in a tiny apartment in west Tampa that overlooked box compactors behind a Wal-Mart. It was one of those old three-story jobs that sprouted around Tampa in the fifties, powder-blue trim and the complex’s name in cursive letters on the side. But the sturdy construction had far outlasted the desirability of the neighborhood, and living there had gone from modest quaintness to a decidedly dicey proposition. All vegetation was dead, soot ran halfway up the outside walls, and a row of six-hundred-dollar sedans nosed against the building, dripping oil, Prestone and brake
fluid that ran to the storm drain through cigarette butts, broken beer bottles and spent phone cards. It was called “Splendid Acres.”

John’s wind-up alarm went off at six. If the phone call was coming, it would be in the next half hour. If it didn’t, he was going back to bed. He went to his front door, checked out the peephole, unbolted and got the paper. He stood at the kitchenette munching unbuttered toast and reading a story about the new aluminum streetlights in south Florida that collapse when a driver hits them so they don’t get killed, and how people in pickup trucks were hitting them on purpose, then hauling them off to sell for scrap.

The phone rang.

John arrived at Tampa High School and headed for the classroom. The principal stuck his head out his office. “John, I’d like a word.”

John sat down in front of the principal’s desk.

“John, we’ve gotten a complaint. A parent called. Did you tell a student yesterday to ‘shut the hell up’?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question, and I want you to be straight with me. Did you or didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” said John. “Actually, the full quote was, ‘Put the knife away, sit down and shut the hell up!’ ”

“John, we can’t have language like that in our classrooms. We have a zero-tolerance program in place.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“Zero means zero. There’s going to be an investigation. Until then you’re suspended.”

“But what about the weapon? What about the policy against that?”

“None of the other students saw anything.”

“
I
saw it.”

“Because you violated the zero policy, your account must be excluded. It’s all part of the program. Would you like a copy?”

John didn’t answer.

The principal looked down and began doing paperwork on another matter, indicating the meeting was over.

John left the school in a fog. He went home and got out the classifieds. He picked up the phone and responded to an ad for someone to clean bedpans at the prison hospital.

They asked John what he used to do that he would apply for such a terrible job. John told them.

“Man, you had a really bad job.”

They said they could see why John would have quit. John said he didn’t quit; he had been suspended for swearing at an armed student. They told John they were sorry, but that made him unfit for the position.

John was undaunted. He continued working the phone for the better part of the afternoon, and persistence finally paid off. He put on his best synthetic suit and headed across town for an interview. Soon he was shaking hands with his new employers.

The next morning John walked into a gleaming office building and took off his jacket, revealing a short-sleeve dress shirt. He stepped up to a counter and removed the
NEXT WINDOW PLEASE
sign.

“May I help you?” asked John.

The next person in line at Consolidated Bank stepped up to John’s window.

John discovered he liked being a teller. Each morning he lovingly wiped down his counter with a spray bottle and paper towels. He made sure the different-denomination bills were all pointed the same way in his drawer. He tested the chained pens and filled the lollipop bowl.

John learned the rhythms of the bank lobby. Retirees arrived in the morning, businessmen in the afternoon, sawdust-covered construction workers at lunch on Friday. The very wealthy got to skip the lines altogether and go directly to the office of the senior vice president in charge of taking millionaires to lunch.

John began to know the regular customers by name, and they trusted him enough to confide about medical conditions. He was a good listener. Some of the other clerks merely pretended to pay attention while counting money—smiling and nodding at horrible news or looking grim when the customer told a joke, but John’s facial expressions were always in context.

John’s appearance was also dependable. Khakis, loafers and one of the ten identical white short-sleeve dress shirts he kept hanging in his closet. He was trim, pushing fifty, with a full head of slightly oily brown hair. Efficient, content, loyal to the company, harboring no further ambition. The consummate foot soldier.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gladstone. How are you today?”

“Spastic colon.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“The doctors don’t know what they’re doing.”

“No, they don’t.”

“It’s acting up right now.”

“A shame.”

“You married yet?”

“Still free as a bird.”

“I don’t know how they’re letting you get away.”

“Lollipops for the grandkids?”

John was counting twenties when he saw the four older women at the back of his line. They peeked around the customers and waved at John. He smiled and waved back.

They were all widows, seventy-six to eighty-eight years old, and the tallest might make a case for five feet, if she had a new permanent. When it was their turn, they hit John’s counter like it was the two-dollar window at the greyhound track.

Many of John’s customers were senior citizens, and they were lonely. They tried to squeeze every last drop of human contact out of a Social Security deposit, and they could stretch transactions to astronomical lengths with a play-by-play of their last twenty-four hours on earth. The less patient clerks tried to hurry them along, but John had an endless reservoir of empathy. He never tired of discussing podiatry or extra fiber or the thankless daughter who never calls despite everything.

But the four women now standing before John were different. They had formed an investment club that was outperforming most mutual-fund managers, and they had begun popping up in newspapers and on talk shows. Edith, Edna, Eunice and Ethel. The media dubbed them “The E-Team.”

They were starting to be recognized everywhere—at bars and nightclubs, and in the lines at Morrison’s and Luby’s, where they scraped Cool Whip off Jell-O cubes and signed autographs. They were a formidable crew at crunching numbers, and their enthusiasm for equities was only eclipsed by their rivalry for men, which often resulted in an internecine ruthlessness last witnessed on the Russian front. They spent many a day cruising up and down Dale Mabry Highway, trolling for men like spring-breaking sorority sisters. Then they dropped in the supermarket to goose the retired bag boys.

John handed the women four deposit receipts. “How’s the E-Team today?”

“Rockin’ and rollin’.”

A door to an executive suite opened and a bank vice president walked out and headed to lunch with a distinguished gray-haired customer in a three-piece suit.

“Look!” said Edith. “It’s Ambrose!”

“Who?” asked John.

“Ambrose Tarrington the Third,” said Eunice. “Old money.”

“A hottie,” said Ethel.

“Slut,” said Edith.

The women accelerated the pace of their transactions, slipped John a stock tip and hurried out the door after Ambrose.

“Where’d he go?” said Eunice.

“There he is!”

A white Bentley pulled out of the parking lot.

The woman piled in a blue Buick Regal with curb feelers and a Plexiglas love-bug shield and took off after the Bentley. They sped north on Dale Mabry Highway, four wisps of white hair at window level.

They pulled up next to Ambrose at a red light. Edith lowered her automatic window.

“Hubba hubba!”

Ambrose looked over and saw the Buick.

The light turned green and Ambrose floored it, but the Buick stayed with him for three blocks. The E-Team knelt in their seats and hung out the windows.

“Got a girlfriend?”

“Want some company?”

Ambrose rolled up his window and hit the gas. The Bentley slid into the turn lane and made a right.

“Follow him!” said Edna.

Eunice made a slow right across three lanes of honking traffic.

Ambrose thought he had gotten away and began to relax. Then he happened to glance in his rearview and saw a blue Buick a half mile back, doing ninety, weaving in and out of cars, gaining fast. Ambrose braked and made a last-second turn onto an exit ramp. The Buick was in the far left lane and couldn’t get over. Ambrose escaped.

“You did that on purpose!” Edna yelled at Eunice. “You were jealous!”

“Bite me.”

“Glasses back on,” said Ethel. “Doctors’ orders.”

They all faced forward in their seats and put on jet-black wraparound cataract goggles.

“I hate these glasses,” said Ethel. “They’re so
old
-looking.”

“I think they make me look fly,” said Edith, “like Wesley Snipes.”

Edna checked her watch. “It’s still the early bird at Malio’s.”

“We’re there,” said Eunice. She went to hit the turn signal for the restaurant’s exit but discovered it had been on since she didn’t know when.

S
CATTERED CLOUDS
provided a break from the Florida heat, just before the traditional showers that fell across Tampa Bay every summer afternoon for fifteen minutes. Martha Davenport put on a wide-brimmed straw hat with a yellow ribbon and grabbed her basket of gardening tools. She set Nicole in her bouncy baby seat next to the flower bed.

Martha hummed and weeded under some shrubs. She made funny faces at Nicole, who giggled and bobbed in her seat.

Suddenly, something caught the corner of Martha’s eye. A pit bull charging from across the street. Martha’s heart skipped. She snatched Nicole from her seat and glanced toward the front door. Too far. No time. The dog was already in their yard now, full gallop.

Martha didn’t know where it came from. Some prehistoric maternal genetic memory. When the dog was feet away and preparing to strike, Martha tucked Nicole under her arm like a football and hunched in a two-point stance. She let out a mighty guttural roar right in the dog’s face. It startled her as much as the pit bull, who hit the brakes. Rasputin stopped and looked at her a second, then trotted back to his own yard and licked himself.

Martha went inside the house, sat down and couldn’t stop shaking. She picked up the phone and called animal control.

JIM DAVENPORT DROVE
home from work. When he turned onto Triggerfish Lane, there was a crowd in the road. An animal-control truck and lots of neighbors. Martha was in the middle of it. He recognized her screaming from the end of the block.

Jim pulled into his driveway and went down to the street.

“What do you mean you can’t take the dog away!” Martha yelled at the animal-control officer.

“Take it easy,” said the officer.

“I want that dog out of this neighborhood! That man doesn’t properly control him! He’s a dangerous menace!”

“You said he didn’t bite you or your daughter?” said the officer.

“He
would
have!”

“I’m sorry. I can only give him a ticket for not having his dog on a leash. I can’t do anything else until it bites someone.”

“Then it’ll be too late!”

Jack Terrier stepped up.

“I truly apologize for the inconvenience, officer. I don’t know how he got loose. This is the first time. I swear I won’t let it happen again.”

Gladys Plant came out and joined the fray. “He’s lying! It’s always loose!”

More neighbors gathered around. Some college students. Serge and Coleman.

Martha noticed Jim’s arrival. She grabbed him by the arm. “Jim! Do something!”

“I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Jim!”

“I can only write a ticket,” said the officer.

“He went for my child!” screamed Martha.

“Lower your voice, ma’am.”

“He just wanted to sniff you. He was being friendly,” said Jack. He looked down at Rasputin, now on a leash at his feet, addressing the dog in baby talk. “Weren’t you just trying to be friendly, my little boopsie?” Rasputin wagged his tongue and rolled on his back with a half-boner.

“How revolting!” said Martha. Then, to the officer: “What the hell do we pay you for?”

“I already told you once to take it easy.”

“Officer,” said Jack. “Please cut her some slack. It’s perfectly understandable. She misinterpreted Rasputin’s play-fulness. She’s just being a good mom.”

“Don’t you fucking patronize me!” said Martha.

“Ma’am, I’ll warn you one last time,” said the officer.

“That monster charged my baby!”

“Rasputin is
my
baby,” said Jack.

“You son of a bitch!”

“Ma’am!”

“Look, you’re upsetting Rasputin,” said Jack. “And it’s his birthday.”

“
You
—” Martha lunged for Terrier’s throat, and the officer had to restrain her.

THE SILENCE WAS
suffocating inside the Suburban. It was dark out when Jim and Martha approached their neighborhood.

Martha had a box of Kleenex in her lap, trying to get ink off her fingertips.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Jim. “I’m stunned.”

“Some help you were!”

“I never thought I’d have to bail my wife out of jail.”

“
Someone
had to stand up for our family!”

“But did you have to spit at the officer?”

Martha folded her arms and looked away. They turned onto Triggerfish.

Something appeared in the road.

Martha grabbed the dashboard. “Watch it!”

Jim swerved to avoid Rasputin standing in the middle of the street.

They pulled into the driveway. Jim got out and walked around and opened Martha’s door, but she just sat there staring ahead, arms folded again.

“It’s been a long day,” he said.

She didn’t budge.

Jim sighed and went inside alone.

Rasputin stood in the middle of the street, swaying his hindquarters. He watched Jim Davenport go in the house, and, a few minutes later, Martha as well.

It was quiet again. Rasputin began trotting up the street, toenails clicking on the pavement. On Triggerfish Lane, the night belonged to Rasputin. He was on patrol.

What’s this? A squirrel? He charged. “Arrr! Arrr! Arrr! Arrr!”

The squirrel scampered up a tree.

Rasputin moved on. What’s that? A cat? “Arrr! Arrr! Arrr! Arrr!”

The cat jumped on top of a car.

Who’s next? Opossum? “Arrr! Arrr! Arrr! Arrr!”

It darted under the Davenports’ porch.

Rasputin moseyed on down the block until he spotted something new. Ah, big game!

COLEMAN SAT ON
his front porch shortly after midnight, looking around furtively as he sneaked a toke with a roach clip. It was his fourth joint since Letterman came on. Which meant
munchies. That accounted for the plate of corn chips and bite-size sausages on his lap.

Coleman took another hit and got the feeling someone was watching him. He looked around but didn’t see anything. He decided he was just really paranoid—good weed! Then he heard a low growl. He looked down the steps and saw Rasputin, teeth bared, saliva dripping. The dog took a step forward and snapped his teeth.

“Oh, hello,” said Coleman. “One of my little nature friends.”

Rasputin snapped his teeth again and barked.

“Hungry, eh?”

Coleman tossed a sausage, and Rasputin caught it in flight and swallowed.

“Wow! You must be starved!” He threw another sausage, and Rasputin wolfed it again. Then Rasputin sat down and wagged his tail.

Coleman tossed a steady stream of sausages.

“Didn’t I hear earlier today that it’s your birthday?…We gotta celebrate! Wait here.”

Coleman got up to go in the house, but fell over. “Yow, good buzz.” He got up again, more slowly this time, and went inside. He came back out with a plastic Cool Whip tub, set it in front of Rasputin and filled it with beer. The dog began lapping.

“Whoa, dude. It’s all about pacing yourself!”

Coleman made another trip inside and returned with a new joint and an empty toilet-paper tube. He lit the joint and took a deep hit. Then he put the tube to his mouth and held the other end over Rasputin’s snout and blew him a shotgun.

“Hold it in!” said Coleman.

But apparently Rasputin wasn’t paying attention. He shook his head and made little doggie coughs.

“Let’s watch some tube,” said Coleman. He went inside and Rasputin followed.

They caught the end of Conan. “I’m hungry again. What about you?”

Rasputin trailed Coleman into the kitchen, and Coleman opened the pantry. “See anything you like?”

The dog barked twice.

“What is it, Lassie? You say you want Chee-tos?”

Coleman dumped the entire bag in a big mixing bowl. He opened two Budweisers and emptied them into a tall plastic cup. “The key is to pour slowly at a low angle so you don’t get a head.” Coleman popped another can and poured it in Rasputin’s Cool Whip bowl.

Rasputin followed Coleman back into the living room. Coleman set the beer and Chee-tos on the floor in front of Rasputin and turned on Nick at Nite.

Four
A
.
M
.

Serge and Sharon got in from a motel-room robbery. It was dark inside except for the TV. They talked quietly as they came in the door.

“…You didn’t have to pistol-whip him like that,” said Serge.

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at me,” said Sharon.

“You were giving him a blow job!”

“Doesn’t give him the right to leer.”

“Obviously we’ve not going to resolve this…” Serge flicked on the light. “What the fuck’s been going on in here?”

Coleman was passed out on the sofa and Rasputin was asleep under the coffee table. There were separate piles of canine throw-up and Coleman throw-up.

“This is disgusting!” said Sharon.

“Wake up! Both of you!” yelled Serge.

“What? What is it?” said Coleman, slowly coming around. Rasputin awoke and hit his head on the underside of the table. He crawled out, staggered into a footstool and fell down.

“That dog has bloodshot eyes!” said Serge. He studied the mess on the floor. “You gave him Chee-tos?”

“It’s what he wanted.”

“No wonder he threw up. You, I expect it from…. What’s this?”

“A lava lamp.”

“I know it’s a lava lamp. What’s it doing on the floor?”

“So he could look at it. He got hung up on it for about an hour.”

“What else did you do?” asked Serge.

Coleman look embarrassed.

“Come on,” said Serge. “Out with it.”

Coleman told them.

“Oh! Jesus!” Sharon exclaimed. “That’s the most perverted thing I ever heard.”

Coleman became defensive. “I used a glove.”

“But why?” said Serge. “Why on earth would you do such a repulsive thing in the first place?”

Coleman shrugged. “It was his birthday.”