Chaos to the Fly 4 (the finale)
5.
“I wouldn’t mind getting the Polish flag tattooed on my arm,” Vic allowed. “It’d give me something to point at if I’m ever caught out doing something stupid. Or maybe a Polish warbird, you know. Something that’ll warn a fella they’re messing with at least a third-generation Polack.”
Vic, Pete, and Pete’s brother from another mother and interim Pirate’s third base coach, Richie G, sat at the bar of Mister Joe’s Tap while the bartender and non-owner of the establishment, Joe, sat as far away as the room allowed, reading a paperback and avoiding interaction. The thunderstorm had finally abated. There was still the patter of rain on the roof, easily audible since the television was on the fritz again.
“I don’t think anybody needs reminders where you’re from,” Richie G said.
Vic narrowed his eyes. He sensed Richie G didn’t mean this as a compliment. Vic was also pretty sure there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“Fair enough,” Vic nodded. “Do you think you could do it?”
“Course he can do it,” Pete said. “He inked most of mine. And I get complimented on them all the time.”
“From twelve-year-olds?”
“No, dick. Mostly the whores on State Line, though. Ain’t one of them younger than fifty. At the very least, none of them look younger than fifty.”
“When you settle on what you want, let me know, we’re line our schedules up and make it happen,” Richie G said. “It’s fifty bucks an hour for as long as it takes.”
“Goddam. I don’t make close to half that an hour, and I actually work for a living. Don’t I get friend prices since I’m Pete’s brother.”
“Those are friend prices.”
“All right. All right. I gotta think about it,” Vic said, thinking Richie G could go fuck himself. He glanced at the wall clock and groaned. “Shit, I gotta work tonight and I ain’t nowhere near drunk enough to make me okay with it.”
Pete said, “yeah, I better be going, too. Them whores ain’t going to fuck themselves. I mean, they can, but they shouldn’t have to.”
“I bet they charge a damn sight less than fifty dollars an hour.”
“The ones I go to do. Could be cause I’m so goddam handsome, though.”
“That’s gotta be it.”
Vic left the non-owner, bartender, Joe, a hefty dollar tip and dragged himself away from the font from which the fifty-cent Old Style draft flowed though the booze tasted like frigid donkey piss and flooded his mind with self-loathing.
He hit the stoop outside Mister Joe’s Tap flanked by Pete and Richie G. They took a moment to light up their heaters and blew smoke at the overcast sky.
“Hey, Coach.”
The voice startled all three of them. Pete dropped his Marlboro in a puddle.
“God. What? What now?”
Brian emerged from the darkness off the side of the tavern. His brown hair was plastered to his head, clothes soaked through. There was no telling how long he’d been standing out there, waiting. No sign of his jackassy buddies.
“Uhm… What’s going on, Brian? Something wrong?” Vic’s voice took on an almost unrecognizably kind tone that would have been completely alien to the ears of that hood ornament thief, Milsap, or the kid with the fucked-up nose, Symanski.
“That’s Brian. Our star pitcher and all-around best player,” Pete said by way of introducing him to Richie G.
“Hey, Coach. Coaches.” Brian said.
“You really don’t need to be out in this weather,” Pete said. “You get sick, then what?”
“It’s something that couldn’t wait.”
“If you’re looking for me to buy you beer; you’re shit out of luck,” Vic said. “I guess I could get you a pack of smokes if you got the money. I can go that far. I’m pretty sure that much ain’t illegal.”
“Nah, Coach, I’m not looking for cigarettes. I’ve got a big problem, and I need to borrow twelve hundred dollars.”
“Christ! Where you reckon you’re gonna borrow that from?”
“I was hoping you, Coach.”
“Me? Ha! I’ve never even seen twelve hundred dollars at the same time. My baby blue Buick didn’t even cost me twelve hundred dollars.”
“You give twenty-five hundred for it,” Pete corrected.
“Not all at once. I gave the guy like fifty bucks and financed the rest for four years. And I still about lost the car that one time because I got drunk at that lingerie show out in East Chicago, and I got rolled by a bunch of dirty Mexicans. Took my entire fucking paycheck.”
“Pretty sure the only Mexican who got your money that day was Consuela the Latina lingerie model.”
“You don’t know. You weren’t there. Those Mexicans knew exactly what they were doing. They beat me in such a way, they left no bruises. Fucking professionals.”
“So, what’s going on, kid?” Petre asked. “Twelve-year-olds don’t run into that kinda financial trouble. Is it your parents? They in some kinda bad fix?”
Brian’s eyes shimmered in the streetlights. His face contorted in a mixture of forlorn anger and frustrated fear. “It’s got nothing to do with them, and they can’t know about it if I tell you.”
“Then you better not tell your little jackass buddy, Skiba. Little fucking snitch.”
“He don’t know nothing. He wasn’t there. He’s still grounded from you bought us those beers.”
“Allegedly.” Vic glanced around uneasily. “C’mon, man. We gotta keep that plausible deniability here.”
“So, what happened?” Pete asked.
Brian quickly told them the story the way he understood it. Mickey cultivating a marijuana field behind Powderhorn Lake. Dicky who they called Slickey demanding restitution for the harvested plants they never even laid eyes upon.
“I knew that rat-tailed bastard was no good,” Vic hissed. He slapped his fist in his palm as melodramatically as possible to show he took this shit seriously.
“You ain’t thinking about paying that motherfucker, are you?” Pete asked.
Brian shrugged. “I don’t know what I was thinking. At first, I wasn’t. I thought he was out of his mind. I don’t even have proof there were any plants there in the first place. Then I start seeing Slickey riding past my house on that junky bicycle. I ain’t worried about me; I can handle anything. I’m worried about what happens if they corner my little brother somewhere, and I ain’t there to protect him.”
“Have you considered stabbing him to death?” Vic asked. “You can dump him out behind Powderhorn where Lenny Pinarski likes to get rid of his dead hookers after he cuts them up.”
“C’mon, Coach.”
“Well, then, pay the twelve hundred bucks. I don’t know what to tell you.”
Brian shuddered. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Of course, you don’t,” Richie G spoke. His beard practically crackled with gravitas. “And why should you? All this you’re experiencing; it’s all normal for the spider. But you’re no spider, are you?”
“I… what?”
“All the fly sees is chaos. You said this kid’s name is Mickey Hayes?”
“And Nickey and Dickey who they call Slickey.”
“But Mickey’s the one that got you worried, right? He’s the oldest of the boys. The one who had the dop hanging off his handlebars?”
“Yeah, Mickey calls the shots.”
“Okay.” Richie G nodded at Vic and Pete. “I’ll have it taken care of.”
Vic smiled with relief. “See there. Nothing to worry about. Go home and get dried off. I still got a goddam work shift I gotta get through. Don’t forget. We got a game against the Expos on Friday.”
“Thursday.”
“Thursday. Just worry about how you plan to beat those clown fuckers. We got this Mickey kid handled.”
“I got it handled.”
“Richie G gots it handled.”
“I know some people.”
“Apparently, he knows some people. I don’t fucking know anybody.”
6.
It had finally quit raining. The sun hit just right creating the sort of humid miasma that could melt Region folks into a puddle of sweat after a mere fifteen minutes outdoors.
Skiba’s mom had grown tired of looking at his weaselly face and ungrounded him under the condition that he avoid Milsap and Brian. Skiba met up with Milsap, Brian, and Wesley at the tiny brick corner store on Sheffield Avenue. Milsap was ecstatic because he’d just managed to steal thirty cents worth of penny candy from under the nose of the eighty-year-old proprietor, Mrs. Lottie.
“Really, Milsap,” Brian said. “You’re stealing penny candy…”
“Hey, man, I told you I’m not made of money.”
Brian shook his head. “I guess my question is why are you all dressed up like Axl Rose?”
“I ain’t dressed up like Axl Rose.”
“Dude, you got like Barqtoos or some shit up and down your arms. Those like Crackerjack rub-ons, or…?”
“No, they’re Barqtoos. I had to drink a lot of fucking root beer to get these, too. So, how about a little respect.”
“I’m just saying, you know, it’s too much. The Barqtoos. The bandana wrapped around your forehead.”
“To keep the sweat out of my eyes. It’s fucking hot.”
“The shiny, aviator sunglasses.”
“To keep the sun out of my eyes. It’s fucking bright.”
“I mean, you’re wearing an Appetite for Destruction T-shirt with the sleeves cut out.”
“So what? Am I dressed like a dude who enjoys listening to Guns N’ fuckin’ Roses? Yes I am. No denying that. Am I dressed like Axl? No, I’m dressed like Milsap. One of these days, you’re gonna hafta recognize.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re not gonna bring me down with your negativity today,” Milsap said. “God, could step down–.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“Your God could step down from Heaven to personally remind me how fucking shitty my life is, and, guess what, wouldn’t make me any less happy than I am today.”
Brian stared at his friend for a long moment as Milsap shoveled purloined lemon drops into his mouth. “Okay. I’ll bite. Whatcha so happy about? You find your momma’s porno stash?”
“Huh. Let’s just say, I got some powers beyond the veil not only looking out for me, but answering to me, as well.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Milsap? It’s too early for riddles.”
Milsap smirked hard enough it would have made Coach Vic twitch had he have seen it. He took a moment to gather some fallen crab apples from the grass before he answered. “You ain’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Mickey Hayes got sent up to Juvie. Cops picked him up and found two ounces of weed on him. We’re not gonna hafta worry about that jackass the next four years, at least.”
“No shit?” Brian felt his chest loosen for the first time in a week.
“Now, you saw that book I grabbed the other day. Well, after some hardcore transcendental meditation, I cursed the fuck outta Mickey Hayes. It was a lot like really aggressive praying. But I went at it hard. And, sure enough, it worked. I ran into Dickey Hayes who they call Slickey over at Olympia Lane, and he was still broken up about it, saying his brother wouldn’t have had so much as a joint on him, let alone two ounces. I told him it looked like his brother had more weed on him than he though since we sure as fuck didn’t take any of their crop. I don’t think we’ll have to worry so much about Dickey, either. He sure seemed like he lost his spunk.”
“Coach came through.” Brian smiled.
“Coach nothing. I’m the one who cursed Mickey. And this is only the beginning. Coach Vic keeps running his mouth, making fun of me, I’ll curse him so that he catches herpes. Again.”
“You do that.”
“I got something to confess,” Wesley said.
“You might wanna save it for Father John at St. Cas,” Milsap said. “Especially if the confession’s about masturbating to clown porn. He loves that shit.”
“No, I… clown porn? No, I just wanted to tell you guys there was a bunch more weed planted behind the tree line across from Powderhorn.”
“How the hell you know that?”
“I went back there,” Wesley admitted. “When I was hanging out with Aguirre and Corn Nose. We were going to play army in the woods.”
“Who the hell’s Corn Nose?”
“Symanski. That’s what we call him, now. They’d never been back there before. I thought I’d show them.”
“You don’t need to be going back there without me. There ain’t nothing good back there. You’re lucky you didn’t run into any railroad detectives.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything. But we went back there and looked around, and there was a clearing right behind those trees with like fifteen marijuana plants growing back there.”
“No shit?”
“So, we stomped them down until Corn Nose could cut them with his Rambo knife. Then we dragged the plants out to the lake and threw them in the water.”
“Why’d you do that?”
Wesley hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words, realized those weren’t coming and plowed ahead. “Because fuck those guys. When I got my Mongoose, Mickey chased me around town and said he was gonna knock me off the bike and take it. And I remember that one time he sold you that joint for five bucks, and you couldn’t get high off it cause he stuffed it full of oregano.”
“No one’s saying he didn’t deserve to have his dope dumped like a dead hooker. I’m just saying, unlike a dead hooker, there’s so much more we could have done with that weed.”
“It was all we could do to drag it a stalk at a time…”
Milsap had grown bored of the conversation. As far as he was concerned, he’d successfully cast a curse. The problem was resolved. Likely there would soon be a whole slew of new problems on the horizon, and those were going to get handled in a similar vein so long as he kept up with his transcendental meditation. There was a chance he could become the Region’s first ninja warlock, and he could barely contain his excitement. In the meantime, there was a dark green Cordoba turning onto the street heading toward the White Hen Pantry. The car seemed to be in urgent need of a handful of crab apples bouncing off its exterior. Milsap helped him out the best he could.
“Goddammit, Milsap.” Brian sounded put out, but his hands were already loaded with ammunition. He let loose a barrage of his own before the car even screeched to a halt. There wasn’t a more satisfying sound in all the world than trash fruit banging off the quarter panel of a secondhand Chevy.
The goofy-looking jackass driving the Cordoba swung the door open and stepped out onto the street. Hilariously, he didn’t look much different than Milsap. A musician who probably wasn’t very good but desperately wanted you to know he played an instrument.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you kids?”
“Fuck you, little needle dick,” came the reply.
The four boys loaded up on crab apples and raced in the direction of Hermit’s Park, and the man in the green Cordoba followed.
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.
