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  Call Me Kid

  Can an alcoholic help a dying girl while tracking a killer?

  By

  Billy Sharpe

  Copyright © 2014 by Billy Sharpe

  All Rights Reserved.

  Author rating for intellectual content and vulgarity: Would you believe this material is appropriate for a five-year old with the permission of a parent? How about a twenty-one year old? Maybe someone forty-six?

  Benjamin Franklin believed the wild turkey should be the national bird.

  Chapter 1

  Not only did the Tobacco Land Kid energize the children on this hot, dusty playground, but also, away from his job, he kept people dazzled with his rock-hard charm, rock-hard sociability, rock-hard word of honor, and his magnetism. What boosted this charisma? For starters, his voice descended to a low C, which resembled a bullfrog or foghorn, triggering people to report that the sound penetrated their bodies and vibrated their insides. His other physical attributes provided further grist for the public mill; furthermore, his looks identified him—-ugly. Could he have experienced mutation? With the body of a chimpanzee, he stood six feet two inches tall. Picture a chimp with red hair in a ponytail, flashing blue eyes that twinkled, captivated, or bored a hole.

  He possessed guts and foresight, guts and hindsight, guts and more guts. During a barroom fight, a strike from a hawk bill knife had made a cut on his left cheek; afterwards, with steady fingers, needle, and nylon thread, he sewed up the wound; nevertheless, a large gathered-up scar remained.

  In a later altercation, a big baldheaded black enthusiast smashed his nose to the left; but worse, in the same fight, the dark-skinned man, still unhappy, delivered a blow with a wine bottle. This wallop drooped the Kid’s non-dominant eye permanently.

  He demonstrated a cocky manner which implied he would sway any person. Bearing that fact in mind, neither the thinkers nor the non-thinkers understood this, since he demonstrated no manners or training; furthermore, his clothing amounted to monotony, because he wore khakis plus stylish two-hundred-dollar blue monogrammed dress shirts, except when he went into the woods. On occasions, he dressed in a black overcoat. Regardless of his activities, he always put on a hat.

  To him, this aforementioned playground symbolized Carnegie Hall, with him the conductor and the children, the pop group.

  In groups, they played, laughed, screamed.

  One of the boys, wearing short brown pants, and pockets bulging with marbles, hurled a kickball over the Kid’s head. The little jinx knew the outcome, in textbook form, placing the heel of his left foot near the arch of the right. In a twinkle, the Kid came to the ready position and shouldered an imaginary shotgun, while his tongue issued a loud click. In unison, all yelled “boom.” He chuckled.

  His usual duties kept him at Wilson Senior High in Wilson, North Carolina, where he taught social studies, but in the spring, he rotated to one of the kindergarten-through-eighth-grade schools where he spent Mondays and Fridays wiping noses, tying shoes, and fixing hair bows. He loved these days--and George, too.

  His assistant, George Meadows, stood forty yards away. The burly George, wearing white sweatclothes and a five o’clock shadow in a show of loyalty, maintained the manner of a drill sergeant. Due to his efficiency, the Kid’s mind often drifted.

  The Kid scuffed at a scrap of coastal Bermuda grass. Oh me, here comes an office assistant. Wearing the expression of the little match girl, she handed him a sealed envelope. He read the note, made a ball, and shoved the crumpled memo into his jacket pocket.

  He stormed toward the parking lot. Then he pivoted and walked backwards in order to speak to George. “Gotta go to the office.” George nodded glumly, while a seed of apprehension sprouted in the Kid’s brain, causing him to take a second look back. “Finish observing recess for me.” With his chin flopping, George gave another nod.

  The Kid swallowed. He squeezed his nose in the area between his eyes. He thought. What’s next? Had Waterloo arrived?

  He walked through the crowd of junior high cheerleaders in their garnet-and-gold uniforms as they practiced somersaults, flips, and cartwheels. He stumbled. His awkwardness triggered nervous laughter from the five boys and six girls. A flash of anger from his blue eyes wilted them, but the wrath faded to a wave of melancholy, since he always loved them as well as the baseball players. Just the same intuition informed him those moments had ended, along with his career.

  When he continued, they smiled to reveal their love.

  In the parking lot, he jumped into his red eight-year-old ‘05, four-wheel-drive pickup and sped to the high school. Halfway there his hands trembled, and from his glove compartment he retrieved an open pint of Scotch. He knocked down two hard swallows, which in minutes stopped the tremors, giving him some similarity to the old Kid.

  With steady hands he swung from the pickup and went straight to the principal’s office. Straight ahead, perched in the doorway, at ninety-three pounds, stood Miss Hannah Gertrude Peabody, the school secretary. She wore a white dress, which went from neck to shins. The students alleged she had worked for one hundred years in the Wilson County Schools.

  Your girlfriend left you? See Miss Peabody. Cut your finger? See Miss Peabody. You failed a test? See Miss Peabody. “Kid, you’re in trouble.” She took him by the shoulders, shook him, led him to her bathroom, and opened the door. It creaked. The students always claimed the creaking came from her back, but the noise originated from a rusty hinge. “Here, mouthwash for the Scotch breath. Wash up, too.”

  He stepped into her private room before Mr. Sanders, wearing a suit and tie, opened his door, which revealed the usual principal’s workplace in any sixty-year-old building. “Where …? Can you believe…? Late, too?”

  “He’s here,” said Mrs. Peabody. “He’s washing off playground dust.”

  “Send him in when he finishes.”

  “Rachel Phipps called. The longer she waits... Want me to call her?”

  “No, lemme.”

  A few steps on pencil legs and child-sized feet carried her back to her restroom door. “I bought you seven minutes,” she yelled in a whisper. “Focus. Don’tcha stumble.”

  Using her yo-yo-size arms, she helped him to a chair. With her palm covered in cold sweat, she brushed a lock of red hair from his good eye. When she took her hand away, the wisp returned to its former position.

  The doorknob squeaked. With her hearing loss, she did not hear the screech, but the Kid did. He leaned around her to smile. “Good afternoon, Sir,”

  The principal shook his head and wiped his forehead. He ambled toward his black swivel chair. “Come in, Kid. Take a seat. We gotta talk.”

  The Kid thought: Scotch has invaded your brain. Don’t stagger. Touch the doorframe for a little balance. Sit with care. A flop in the chair means miscalculation. He shouldered his imaginary rifle, pointed at a golf ball on a table, and then clicked with his tongue and cheek.

  Before the principal spoke, the old schoolmaster crossed his arms on his chest. Unfolding them, he dropped his hands into his lap. “I smell alcohol and Miss Peabody’s mouthwash. Two weeks ago, you fell down at La Fontana’s seafood restaurant and regaining your feet caused problems, too.”

  The awful day has come. “Aw, I don’t drink much.”

  The principal stuck the tip of his pinkie from his right hand to the edge of his mouth. “What’s wrong deep inside?”

  “Nothing.”

  The black, rotund, bald principal leaned back in his chair. “Tell me the story about the soft drink. I like the yarn.”

  “Yes Sir, a friend left my house after we drank a ginger ale. I mentioned that the next time he came back one would be waiting for him. Well, he moved to New York City, but he might visit anytime. Keep six in the fridge. My word, you can pu
t it in the bank.”

  “Kid, thirty years here at Wilson High you’ve won three state baseball championships. In four losing seasons, you and your boys played a game or so below five-hundred ball. The worse things got, the calmer you got.”

  “Correct.”

  “Kid, one thing I can’t grasp. Just about everybody loves or likes you, especially Spiffy. Exceptions include Richard Hardy and Clarisse Bovine.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sanders, Richard, everybody calls him by his nickname: Mean Man. A long story. Mrs. Bovine, remember? After we won a state championship, one of the boys celebrated nude in the locker room. I said No to her request to enter.”

  “Anyway Kid, the assistant coaches, players, too, tell me they’ll stick with you and storm a big league stadium with crowbars to break in and play the home team if you say so.” He paused. He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, there’s something about you...Something shines through. People follow you. What is it?”

  “I don’t know, Sir. I love everyone: yellow, black, white, brown, especially children.”

  “Kid, maybe an element shimmers in your ugly face.”

  The Kid thought. He’s making eye contact. He leaned forward. His confidence has peaked. The hard part’s coming.

  “Enough small talk, Kid. You’re boozing at work.”

  “No Sir, I’m not.”

  “Yes you are. Your breath... Almost everybody here supports you, but you have enemies, plus a bottle of expensive Scotch hidden under a false bottom in a drawer, which you keep locked.”

  “Okay, yeah. What you say is true.”

  “A violation of state law. Let’s get to the summit. Put your resignation in this office by five o’clock Monday. If you don’t, I’ll recommend the Board of Education fires you. I’ll trust the public supports me. Make a decision.”

  “I’ll talk with my wife before sundown. Oh, one thing Sir— between your legs lays a real pair of balls.” The Kid aimed at the golf ball.

  With the news echoing in his head, the Kid went to his office. He snatched open the false-bottomed drawer. A shot stopped the trembles. At four o’clock, he drove home while praying no confrontation with the Wilson Police Department would take place.

  He cruised on Highway 42 East, cherishing the pinewoods, the gray farmland, the lazy streams, and the small swamps. Most of all, he treasured the land which grew chest-high tobacco.

  Chapter 2

  Arriving in Wilbanks, he parked his pickup in the driveway. For thirty minutes, he sat.

  From behind an old tobacco barn, his devoted sidekick Spiffy appeared, wearing a purple shirt and yellow pants. His birth certificate showed Algonquin Meriwether Steele. This man would nibble the grass the Kid trod.

  He had earned the moniker Spiffy thanks to his poor choice of clothing. He wore flamboyant clothes with color combinations that drew attention. His hands attracted the most interest. Ham-size they were. What came in third place? The face: the protruding top teeth gave him a chipmunk appearance. His ears made his head look like the front view of a car with the doors open.

  As for strength, bench-pressing most people over twenty-one presented no difficulty, and jumping out of a fifty-five-gallon barrel without touching the sides provided a party trick.

  He demonstrated loyalty, followed by trustworthiness, and dependability.

  “Where’s your scooter, Spiffy?”

  “Broken.”

  “How’d you get here from Wilson?”

  “Hitchhiked.”

  “You came at a bad time.”

  “Aw yeah, Kid, your face tells me something’s bad wrong.”

  “Got fired today.”

  “Aw yeah, talk hasn’t been good about the drinking. I’m with ya.”

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff. Just a bump in life. I’m not an alkie. Need something, Spiffy?”

  “Borrow the old ‘72 pickup to ride to Rocky Mount?”

  “Like your hometown still? Okay, bring her back in one piece. No dents or bruises like you gave quarterbacks in high school or college.”

  “Sure. Want to deal with more street talk?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Last week, a Native American man and his two sons flew into the Raleigh/Durham Airport, looking for me to answer questions about you. They inquired about your talent with firearms and your practical understanding of the woods. I explained you dream the forest, eat the forest, and drink the forest. Furthermore, many nights you sleep with a rifle. The inquisitor also made inquiries about how well you play ‘Texas Hold ‘Em.’ To which yours truly observed you’d been playing since college.”

  “Learn anything about them?”

  “Ah yeah, I told him turnabout is fair play. He boasts of a daughter. He wants a favor for her, but beyond this knowledge, the visitor only acknowledged that he and his two sons owned and managed an electric supply business out west.”

  These meager facts supplied little information; nevertheless, the Kid trusted his instincts, which told him the request must deal with hunting, shooting, woodsmanship, or perhaps all three. In those arenas, few equals existed, and he took pleasure in the fact. He also recognized no superiors. On deciding to assist the young girl, his talents in the woods would conquer any realistic difficulty; however, the obstacle could prove unrealistic.

  He waved Spiffy adios and strolled to the rear of the house. He glanced back at his departing friend while enjoying the purr of the 350-cubic-inch engine.

  Passing the swimming pool, the Kid remembered to call the cleaning service to prepare for the summer. Entering the game room, he scooped up the cue ball, spun the white sphere with his thumb and trigger finger, and sent the object into the cluster, scattering them all. He walked to the poker alcove; he drew one from the deck. After staring at the four of clubs, he flung the card back on the green velvet. All the while, the scene with the principal rotted in his guts.

  Below the crown molding, around the room, a host of trophy animal heads looked down. The most stunning, a Rocky Mountain goat he shot nine years ago, maintained a spot in the top ten in the record books. He received a phone call a month from envious hunters asking for hunting tips. He thought. What a prize, someday I’ll use the creature in a poker game— maybe something else, too.

  From another room, voices broke his concentration.

  Jennifer finished a conversation with Maria, the cook, stepping through the door; her heavy legs displayed textbook examples of lack of use. What used to be jet-black hair showed streaks of white, which framed an unwrinkled marble face, while her blue dress, if waterproof, would make a one-man tent. “Kid, you got no surprise. The principal called… You have...”

  “Lousy break— some think I consume too much alcohol. Sure, Granddad, Uncle Charlie, and Aunt Sarah were alcoholics, but alcoholism does not run in families.”

  “Lord, Kid. Whiskey. Your Uncle Fred, drunk as a louse, ran over his son in the driveway.”

  He stared at her. “My luck’s gone sour. The million-dollar idea never came. Life is no challenge unless I can think of something original and make a fortune”

  Jennifer walked across the room and plopped on a leather sofa in front of the Kid’s executive desk “I’m giving thought to leaving you.”

  “What?” “Nothing’s wrong with your hearing. Before you came home, I bought myself a new four-door sedan.”

  The Kid paced to the bar, picked up a full container of Scotch along with a large glass of ice. He strode back, laid them on his side table, and collapsed in the swivel chair behind his solid mahogany desk. “So what? With the profits from our stocks and bonds, we can afford five new cars a year.”

  “Haven’t left yet. Just thinking.”

  He fondled a picture of Jennifer in her wedding dress. “Aw, heck, come on, Honey— let’s hit the sack.”

  “Why, Kid? You ready for one of yo five-second semi-erections? We don’t experience a sex life. Making love was unbelievable. Kid, I remember incredible times with you in everything. Things are crumbling.”

  He re
moved the top from the bottle. Three feet to the right lay a trashcan. He tossed the lid, missing the can, and the cap clicked on the parquet. “At least you’re not leaving now.”

  Jennifer leaned forward and placed her left hand on the couch. “Deal time— give me yo resignation. I’ll put the letter on Mr. Sanders’ desk Monday morning around eight. I’ll stay a little longer with yo po drunk tail.”

  “You have my word.” Some Scotch and water spilled on his trousers. Holding the vessel off to the side, he tilted the container to drain a measure onto the carpet, which insured manageability. Turning, he glared at Jennifer.

  Crossing her arms, she leaned back. “The Internal Revenue Service’s going to call.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Found yo federal and state tax return you didn’t file. Financial ruins ....”

  Frowning, he downed a third “Things’ll work out.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  Trembling, he seized the decanter around the neck. Erratic contact when the edge touched the bottle made a tinkling sound. He raised his voice. “Stop fretting, Jennifer.”

  “Oh Kid, be nice. Your harshness reminds me of my parents dying from carbon monoxide fumes. And with this depressing situation I almost forgot. An hour ago, someone came.”

  “Who?”

  “A man ‘ccompanied by two young males. We talked for ten minutes.”

  “Spiffy told me that. Don’t let anybody come. They can all go straight to hell. Retired people ought to do anything they want. Now for the time being, Jennifer, get your ass out of here.”

  She rose. Gathering her robe about her, she wept. She took twelve-inch steps until she grasped the doorknob. She pulled the door open and turned. “My parents… Grew up near Charlottesville, Virginia. Took me to Monticello. Played there. Dad showed me Mr. Jefferson’s plow. We all hoped to have a farm and vegetable garden… My only friend Mary Sue died… My childhood…”

  She left.

  ***

  Three Months passed. The Kid fell. He split the right side of his face. Jennifer raced him to the doctor. The surgeon stitched twenty neat ones on his cheek. Before sending him home, he gave the Kid a lecture about his drinking.