By Brett Matthew West
Cast of Characters:
Unidentified Narrator
Unidentified Harley hogger
Bettie Johnson - 83-year-old spinster
Daisy Mae - Bettie Johnson's milk cow
Tommy Smathers and Josh Carver - boys who help Bettie Johnson round up Daisy Mae
Claude Rafferty - old man trying to prove he still can with the ladies
Maria Covington - dancer at the Umatilla Gentlemen's Club
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Ours is a rich and storied history. Today, our community is as vibrant and diverse as ever, but our past holds stories that are vital. Stories we need to continue to share and preserve. They say nothing much ever happens in a small town. But, let me tell you, no one will ever forget the day the old spinster Bettie Johnson's lone milk cow wandered off in search of a greener pasture. That was a sight to behold.
Picture this scene if you can. Here's this eighty-three year old, seashell white-haired woman, all four and a half feet of her. She's wearing her bloomers and chasing this Guernsey moo-moo down the middle of Braxton Street in broad daylight, raising a cloud of dust behind her. Don't know which concocted more of a ruckus, old lady Johnson or her lowing heifer Daisy Mae. Hee-hee! Oh, we all got a big cackle outta that episode. Much better than all that bang! bang! shoot'em up hullabaloo you see on TV.
Those of us chowing down on piping hot biscuits fresh out of the oven and sopped up with homemade maple syrup, sugar-cured ham, and scrambled eggs in the Old Mill Restaurant heard poor Bettie cry over and over again, "Lawdy! Lawdy! Daisy Mae, you get back here. Don't you make momma hafta run after you. I'm too old for this." We all hurried to the door to see what the commotion was about.
The docile bovine kept meandering down the middle of the road a-chewing her cud as she went. You could smell her unwithered cow chips along the way. Tommy Smathers and Josh Carver returned from fishing at the lake. Like the rest of us, they observed this spectacle. They sat their poles and buckets down on the sidewalk in front of the clothing store. Then, the barefoot boys took up the pursuit.
"We'll help you round up your cow, Miss Johnson," they assured her.
Bettie slowed her steps, "You will?" she asked, "Bless you both. You're such good boys."
"Remind my dad that the next time he says woodshed," Tommy replied back to her.
"Mine too," Josh chimed in.
The rambunctious whippersnappers collared the dogie in front of the ice cream parlor and helped Bettie return her home. She rewarded them with slices of her delicious hot apple pie she's always baking. Remembering their manners, both spry youngsters thanked Bettie for her generosity before departing on their merry ways. Makes my mouth water thinking about the treat that's won more than one blue ribbon down at the county fair. That's coming round next month. Huge happenings in these parts. So, you never know. I might get me a piece of that delectable pie yet. Yum! Yum!
I'm the only one who knows Bettie's secret ingredient for her pastry and I swore a long time ago not to tell another living soul, "Cross my heart and hope to die!" I did.
That brings us to sixty-eight-year-old Claude Rafferty. He's always trying to prove he still can and tie nary a tryst on with one of the local dancers down at the Umatilla Gentlemen's Club. Course, this place is hidden in the sticks on the outskirts of town. Way back in the boondocks. It's one of them privileged, don't tell places, if you know what I mean. Triple X rated for sure. Oops, shouldn't oughtta have confessed that one. Well, too late. The cat's out of the bag now. Meow!
Usually it's Maria Covington, who likes to call herself a fancy woman. Guess that means she's not much more than a hussy. Dim lights, steamed windows, and the backseat of Claude Rafferty's Oldsmobile 98. That's where they do most of their petting and other extracurriculars. They don't know I snuck up on them one moonless night with a video recorder. Weren't a purty picture, but, oh the scandal I could impose if I had a mind to. I could make them the talk of the town. Not that everybody doesn't already suspect the romps the two of them have relished.
No, our quiet niche in the boonies didn't ever attract much of anything BIG...that is, not until last Saturday. That's when the outhouse collided with the windmill and chaos ruled. The pickle began innocent enough when a loud, rumbling, Harley hogger roared up to the courthouse steps. Pleased as punch, he stopped his shiny, new, motorcycle in a parking slip and dismounted. All at once, I recognized the rider. I'd known him my whole life. Whatever bomb he dropped on Umatilla could only be spelled T - R - O - U - B - L - E in all capitalized, bold print letters. I couldn't wait to learn what catastrophic dispatch he imparted this time.
Without speaking, he removed his helmet, winked at me, and nodded. His flaxen, shoulder-length locks glistened in the lustrous rays of the morning sun. I returned a gesture as he disappeared behind the wooden front door of the chancery and hoped I imagined what I thought I'd witnessed. It'd been a while seen I last saw him. And, no, it wasn't an extended middle finger. That wouldn't have been polite.
I closed my eyes tight. Perhaps his appearance was nothing more than a figment of my over-active imagination and desire. Upon reconsideration, and re-opening my baby blues, I somehow doubted the possibility of that phenomenon. Reminding me of Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven, he wore dark threads and danced in and out of the shadows. But, he was very real. I'd found myself face down over his knee a time or two before.
At the moment, even Bettie's longed for famous delicacy wouldn't settle the curdling in my stomach. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, could prepare our little town for what transpired. Pots of gold are not always found at the end of rainbows.
TO BE CONTINUED:
| Author Notes |
The Friendly One, by Snapdragon, selected to complement my story.
So, thanks Snapdragon, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Makai - Narrator (The correct pronunciation of his name rhymes with pie. Makai is a popular Hawaiian name that means seaward)
Edna Whitehurst - proprietor of the Rinalta Movie Theatre
George Olson - VW Beetle driver
Ryan Mooney - a boy Makai claims he is going to visit
Doctor Lamfort - Makai's doctor
Mel Carver - Owner of Carver's Merchantile
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LAST TIME:
Nothing, and I do mean nothing, could prepare our little town for what transpired. Pots of gold are not always found at the ends of rainbows.
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I glanced over at the marquee in front of the Rinalta Theatre to see if a new movie was playing there yet. Nope, it was still a Harry Potter flick. And yes, we'd all seen it at least three times.
Many nights patrons would complain, "The same ole show every day is boring!"
The proprietor of the cinema, Edna Whitehurst's pat response as the cash register rang again for another ticket sale was, "I only change movies once a month."
She never explained why. Somehow the place was packed about every night. I guess there's not a whole lot to do for entertainment in a small town.
A dust devil pirouetted down the middle of Braxton Street. These weren't common weather events in Umatilla. But, generated by a swirling wind, formed from time to time.
George Olson drove up in his chartreuse VW Beetle. The car's color resembled a pale apple. George lived by himself, with his tiger-striped cat Roxie, in a dilapidated one-bedroom trailer on First Avenue. I often wondered if he had a limp wrist? I'd never seen him with a woman and not much of anyone talked to him in town. I didn't like him, or his devious eyes, and hoped he'd pass me by.
To my regret, George stopped his car and rolled the window down. Isn't that the way things go when you're in a hurry to get some place you need to be?
Making small talk he asked, "Where are you headed, Makai? Most of the time, I see you munching on a dust-covered ice cream cone somewhere."
True, I did like my chocolate Bluebell ice cream, and knew I needed to think of a lie and think of one quick, or talking to George would become a lengthy exercise in futility. Another character trait George possessed was being a busybody who'd rat on a youngster in a heartbeat.
Needing a haircut, I brushed long blond bangs out of my eyes and responded, "I'm going over to Ryan Mooney's house. He got a new Lab puppy and wanted me to come pet it. Then, we might shoot some hoops," I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
George noticed the slingshot in my pocket. "You boys be careful you don't put your eyes out with all your dad-blamed shooting," he warned. His remark was gruff.
I didn't bother to tell him what I said meant we might get up a game of basketball. Let the old codger believe what he wanted to as long as he left me alone doing whatever he did. That's when George observed the Harley parked in front of the courthouse.
"I wonder what no good that troublemaker is up to this time?" he sneered through his teeth. "He never could leave well enough be."
Before I could speak, George rolled his window up in a huff and drove away. The car's engine sputtered. A grey plume of exhaust billowed from the tailpipe and rolled up around the dented rear bumper. He'd backed into a post at the VFW a week ago.
I reckoned George headed to the Chevron on the corner of Petunia and Pike to purchase lottery tickets. He won just often enough to acquire them when he received his weekly welfare check. No doubt he'd also buy a case of Miller Lite beer.
The fish bragged to whoever listened, "One is always too much and twelve ain't ever enough."
Marlboro Red's were his other treasures. These he smoked like a chimney on steroids, inhaling one right after the other. Is there any wonder he smelled like a dirty ashtray?
After George departed, I sped over to Carver's Merchantile. I climbed the three steps leading up to the business in a single bound. An antique Coca-Cola vending machine stood like a lone beacon in the far corner of the wooden porch that fronted the establishment. A loose plank raised between me and the prize I sought. The trip hazard needed to be nailed down. A hammer would resolve that problem.
This self-respecting barefooted boy did not want to stub his toe on the beam. That would hurt! Then, it'd be tetanus shot here I come. Hypodermic needles and I weren't the best of friends. Doctor Lamfort would vouch for that. He'd doctored me from the day he delivered me with Epsom salt, a little iodine, and an occasional Band-Aid.
The Coca-Cola machine had seven slots for bottles to roll down into whenever the one before it was bought. They only cost fifty cents. Once, when I noticed no one on the street, through my ambidextrous finagling, I filched a bottle out of the machine without paying for it. I wasn't as clever, or sneaky, as I thought I was. Mel Carver, the shop's keeper caught me red-handed.
Stern, he told me, " Makai, you know better. I should report your shenanigans to the hogger and let him handle this situation in his own special way. But, I'm not going to do that."
"You're not?" I asked in surprise and a bit of relief. I knew what the hogger's consequences of my illegal activities would be.
"No, I am not. Instead, you and I are going to have our own agreement and settle this theft between us. Two days a week you'll come into the shop and sweep the floor, stock the shelves, throw away empty boxes from the storeroom, or do whatever chores I need done. In return, you can help yourself to as many sodas as you want," Mel told me.
Put that way, I didn't have any alternative. Now when I have a powerful thirst, I can quench my desires without any fear of repercussions.
"Okay, I'll do it," I accepted Mel's offer.
"This will be our little secret and the hogger won't have to find out," Mel assured me.
I whiffed blackmail. Three months into our agreement, Tuesdays after school, and Saturdays when I have a boatload of free time on my hands, are the days I fulfill my obligation to Mel. The little bit of pocket money Mel provides me also keeps me coming back.
With a bottle of soda in hand, I raced over to the basement window of the courthouse. I wanted to watch the hogger in action.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
| Author Notes |
If you have not read Chapter One you may not understand a lot of what this chapter is about. To read that chapter, click on the blue number 1 above.
Local Bug, by Mr Jones, selected to complement my story. So, thanks Mr Jones, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. Mr Jones is not a nit. He did not place a period after Mr and neither did I. |
By Brett Matthew West
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Makai - young narrator
hogger - mysterious and unnamed biker the story centers around
Pete Morgan - guard at the jail
Sam - five year old boy Viktor Martinez murdered
Julie Anne McNamara - another victim of a crime perpetrated by Viktor Martinez
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The first two chapters of Umatilla depict the quiet serenity of small town life as told through the eyes of the young narrator Makai. This chapter delves more into the character of the hogger.
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LAST TIME:
With a bottle of Coke in hand, I raced over to the basement window of the courthouse. I wanted to watch the hogger in action.
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I found a small, dusty, corner of the pane of glass and wiped it with my fingers to make a peephole. A spider scurried away on a velvet web offshoot. My field of view wasn't wide enough, so with my hand I made a rapid circular motion and enlarged my gander scope. I sipped a swig of soda and pressed my diamond headlights against the glass. Round One began.
The first word the hogger heard upon entering the Police Station in the basement of the courthouse transmitted from an anxious wannabe Bobbie named Pete Morgan. He put his hands up in front of himself with his fingers extended. Apprehensive, Pete pushed them back and forth and stammered, "Okay, hogger. Take it easy. We don't want any problems here. I'm just a weekend warrior."
"Keep your end of our agreement and there won't be any trouble," the hogger replied, "at least, not between the two of us."
"I promise you I will. In fact, I'm going to go get the prisoner and bring him here to you right now," the skittish security guard jabbered and exited the room in a haste.
Because of his survivalist talents the hogger, an itinerant reward seeker extraordinaire, remained an expert tracker. His current investigation involved the most heinous murder ever committed in Umatilla, although the local yokels attempted to pass the case off as another runaway.
Upon his return with the detained jailbird, the distressed guard fidgeted with the top button of his starched uniform shirt and stated, "I'm in need of some hot java."
Before Pete left the room, the hogger told the sandy-haired roly-poly, "Don't be so inhospitable towards your honored guest. Martinez will have his black."
In fear, Viktor Martinez looked at the guard and trembled, "For God's sake, Morgan. Lock me in a cell. You can't leave me out here alone with this crackbrain!"
The hogger smirked as Morgan departed. Martinez cowered in his chair. Impulsive, I wiped more dirt off the window my nose was thrust against. I had a front row view and didn't want to miss any of the histrionics about to explode inside the room.
The problem with the Polizei's synopsis persisted since the first incident transpired. A second disappearance had cropped up. The hogger believed them to be related in a distinct manner. The county mounties' lack of support made him more lethal. Ingenious though they may be, young people in Umatilla didn't drop out of sight never to be heard from again, especially when they were one of the hogger's distant relatives.
A long ago throwback to an earlier time when beating a suspect was not clandestined behind closed doors or undisguised in public, the hogger knew he must dance the bounteous path of landmines and somehow stay loyal to the shield he wore. His methods were often poignant and he did not meditate on society's expectations of justice. He possessed the gift of turning whales into groveling minnows.
The hogger began his interview, "You made little Sam take an hour long ice cold shower. Then, you beat him to death. He was five years old Martinez. Five frigging years old! Can you even count that high you pathetic piece of crap?"
"I gave the state ten years for manslaughter," Martinez replied as if the crime he'd committed was no big deal.
The obstinate reaction offered by the convict annoyed the hogger. He ratcheted the pressure up a couple notches, "Don't extract my indignation, Martinez. I still remember what you did to Julie Anne McNamara."
The memory brought back an act Martinez thought never again would see the light of day. Beaded with sweat he replied, "That was a long time ago, hogger. Can't we just let bygones be bygones?"
The hogger patted Martinez on the cheek and responded, "I'm an elephant. I never forget." He implanted the palms of his hands on the armrests of the chair Martinez sat bolt-upright in and nose to nose vowed, "You better pray I never see you on the street again. I have a ten foot chain in the saddlebag of my Harley. You ever seen what a body looks like after its been dragged through a thicket from behind a bike? You will! Should you survive!"
Martinez gulped hard.
The hogger removed a pair of shiny brass knuckles from his pocket and placed them on his hand. "Perhaps we've reached the peak of distraction and you're experiencing an attention panic. Maybe this will help you employ your senses when I ask you a question!" The hogger's comment was brusque.
No longer courageous, and desperate to know, Martinez implored, "What are you going to do with those knucks?"
"When I brought you in here yesterday, I said I wanted the names of the others involved in the murder of my niece. You've had ample time to supply me that information," the hogger responded.
He grabbed Martinez by the collar and jerked him to his feet. A decisive, steel-tough, right hook found its mark in the middle of Viktor's solar plexus. The air knocked out of him, Martinez's knees buckled and he doubled over in writhing agony.
From my vantage point, I shuddered and said out loud, "Ow! That had to hurt!" I dropped my bottle of Coke. The glass shattered on the ground. Pools of soda ran over my bare feet.
The hogger shoved Martinez back down into his chair and attested, "Tic-tac-toe! You get one final chance."
Pete Morgan re-entered the room with two cups of coffee in his hands. He noticed Viktor Martinez doubled over in agony. Pete sat the two Styrofoam cups down on top of his desk and asked, "What happened to him?"
Clutching his midsection, Martinez looked up and replied, "I fell over the chair."
"He's ready to return to his cell now Morgan," the hogger assured the guard and started for the door that lead out of the office.
Nosy, I'm immersed in observing the hogger when he is bent on vengeance. The scene added more chill to the scenario I saw unfold. I knew better than allow the hogger to catch me in the act though. So, I needed to be extra careful that did not happen and skedattled away from the window I'd watched the fireworks from.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
| Author Notes |
Curb parked harley, by photopeb, selected to complement this chapter of my story.
So, thanks photopeb, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this chapter of my story. |
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