This is What We Do to Book Snitches Where I Come From
Life has been a blur, lately. Work becomes a weekly series of Bataan death marches. Sixty-six-hour work weeks, four twelve-hour shifts, a blessedly abbreviated ten-hour Friday shift and the obligatory straight eight, 5am to 1pm on Saturday. We’re told this won’t last forever. Business is slowing down thanks in part to Trump’s tremendous economic shenanigans, and maybe these long hours will soon be replaced by unemployment. The thought of being stuck at the house with my eighty-year-old father-in-law is a horrifying prospect that makes the thought of living beneath an overpass hustling for pocket change a reasonable proposition.
Milt won’t keep his mouth shut in the worst ways possible. Most days, I find myself suddenly treated to a forty-five-minute tutorial on Post World War II glassware. Milt is a hardened survivor of the 1980s diamond point craze, and he’s got the kitchen hutches crammed full of fancy glassware to show for it. I collect damn near anything, but I draw the line at hoity toity individually sized salt and pepper shakers. My disinterest only goads him on, and I feel my fragile psyche crumble further as he differentiates between Indiana Glass and Anchor Hocking.
This alone might not quite be enough to launch me into a black ass pit of seething madness. At the very least, I tell myself, I can incorporate this information into a story where an annoying old bastard searches rural thrift stores for a rare cobalt blue Royal Lace patterned sugar bowl while his dumb ass Polack son-in-law shoves some Anchor Hocking Ruby Red depression glass into the dishwasher. The whole story centers on the old man trying to solve the mystery of his suddenly pink glass collection. The story is so vivid in my mind I’m already scouting the most obscure websites to submit the 2500-word story to… once I write it.
All that aside, my problem is, no matter how quickly I rush out of work, trying to beat my wife home to hide the evidence, Milt constantly snitches on me.
My wife will ask Milt how his day went, and he will invariably answer.
“The Polish Hammer had another big haul of books come in the post today. I got them out of the mailbox.”
What the fuck, man? Was that the highlight of his day to the extent that the first words out of his mouth, even before commenting on the likelihood of a storm that can in no way rival the monsoons he weathered in Vietnam, is that he hobbled down the gravel driveway and retrieved a green-wrapped sack of books from Thriftbooks?
The wife usually cocks an eyebrow. “More books? You don’t even have any more room to put them.”
I assure you, casual reader, I will fucking make room for those books. It’s no use trying to persuade my wife. She believes I have enough books to last me the rest of my life. She doesn’t understand that while reading a Ken Bruen novel, the protagonist, Jack Taylor, mentions that he’s reading Robert Irwin which compels me to hop on the internet and order all the available Robert Irwin novels. I’m powerless to resist. Surely, after eleven years of marriage, she may not understand my affliction, but at least realizes it exists, and I’m ate up with it.
The books pour in. Thriftbook purchases are a constant. There’s also a steady stream routed in from Amazon. If I order anything from Amazon, shoelaces, anything, I throw a book in there along with it.
“Somebody got a box of books in the mail today.”
“Looks like a whole passel of books from that Ebay. It was sitting on the kitchen table, I guess it’s gone, now.”
The wife’s eyes seer into mine. “You know works going to be slowing down. It’s only a matter of time, now. Sales are soft. You need to be saving your money.”
Milt smiles smugly. He’s altered my reality and didn’t even have to leave the confines of his goddam catnapper.
Later, in the bedroom, I tell my wife. “Listen, I didn’t get any new books. That demented bastard’s still thinking about the books that came in last week.”
I say this hoping she doesn’t notice the three newly acquired Nick Tosches signed first editions I’ve added to the bedroom bookcase.
“Milt takes his Prevagen daily. He’s still pretty sharp.”
“He doesn’t even know where he’s at half the time. You know what he said to me today? Ozzy died. Again. Every day for a fucking week straight. I get sad all over again.”
“Maybe he thinks it just bears repeating.”
“No, the man’s slipping. It’s best not to believe a word he says about books in the mail, any of that shit. I mean, why would I be ordering books? I’m lucky if I read two pages a day, the way I’ve been working.”
I just ordered six Derek Raymond paperbacks off Ebay. I may never read those fucking things. But I’ll have them on my bookshelf.
The next day is a quick ten-hour shift, so I follow work with a two-and-a-half-hour lawn mowing session. Milt feeling magnanimous having sat on the porch with his glass of unsweetened tea the entire time I sweated my balls off mowing, offers to treat us to some Mexican food from the new restaurant at the four way. Since Milt can’t stand talking to Mexicans, he asks me to phone the order in and he’ll go pick it up.
I duck into the quiet confines of my study where I keep all those thousands of books I’ve ordered. I’ve got El Maya on speed dial. The manager answers and I put in the order, making sure I include Milt’s Tres Amigos burritos.
“On that Tres Amigos, I’m gonna need extra, extra pineapple.”
“That’s gonna cost extra.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I tell him. “Just cause I’m eighty goddam years old doesn’t make me retarded. Got that?”
“Of course, sir.”
“You better make sure that burritos got extra pineapple. I ain’t playing with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cause last time there wasn’t. I paid my extra two bits, Jack, got my Tres Amigos home, and guess what? No damn pineapples.”
“I’m sure there was a misunderstanding, sir. I assure you it won’t happen this time.”
“I want you standing there when I pick it up. That way, there ain’t no pineapple on it, I know who’s face I gotta slap. You ever been tuned up by an eighty-year-old fat man who still can’t get over how hard it rained in Vietnam?”
“There will be plenty of pineapple, sir.”
“There better be. I’ll start taking my business to El Agua Cate. They don’t turn stupid when someone mentions pineapple.”
“The order will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
I hang up, step into the front room. “Okay, Milt. They said they’ll have the food ready in fifteen minutes.
When Milt returns with the food, he’s uncharacteristically quiet. We divvy up the food, and Milt sits in his catnapper with his food tray on his lap, a Michigan game recorded on his TIVO from last year.
“Oh, hell, since when does Tres Amigos comes with pineapple?” Milt bellyaches.
“What’s going on, hon?” The wife asks.
“They got these damn burritos loaded down with pineapple chunks. What if I had a pineapple allergy? I could sue them.”
“I wouldn’t stand for that shit, Milt.” I tell him, “next time you ride down there for grub, you need to tell those guys you don’t appreciate that pineapple shit.”
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
