Chapter 07 - Pounder
I don't know how long I enjoyed my little nap. In my last dream image I remember, I was with Merry at our little cabin. She was sitting on a chair next to the California king size mattress we have there, and prodding me with her feet to wake me up. In real life, this translated into my eyes coming open to find Zar using her hands on my resting form, and in much the same fashion. My ear was getting hissed into as well.
"Are you up? Come on."
"Mm..."
I nodded, and her hand released my mouth. She pointed an index finger, but I already heard it. Crunching and grinding noises. A muffled something or another, now and again. Then some kind of clunk that was all too clear. We didn't suffocate. My nails weren't blue. Sounded like someone idly tapping the side of my truck with the tip of their work boot. Yet it was on my roof of the cab we were in. I pressed my lips to her ear.
"Get down there. You never know. If anything happens, stay there. When you get a chance, don't look back. You head for the diner. Its locked up? Break a window, kick a door in. You hide, and wait for regular people."
If someone is looking for a vehicle over the road, they found us. Its just the nature of what they want. I dropped her the little 38 special snub-nose revolver down. Me and Merry have made sure she can use a basic firearm. No safety, no jamming possible. The original point and click interface. She knows to point at the middle of the chest and ventilate. Zar isn't into guns, she looked at it and gave me the sour face. Like she now had to carry a turd in her pocket. Hey, my thoughts and feelings too, honey. Handguns for social use, shouldn't be a thing. Wish in one hand, though.
Been a while since I felt a need to check my handgun in silence, just in case. I can load and get ready with only the softest of those slow well lubricated clacks. Noise comes from the roof. I'm working by sound and feel, aiming rough at the noise. If this stimuli moves, my aiming moves with it. Now its steady thunks. Other noises joined and replaced those. Not sure what a burrowing animal noise sounds like from below the digging, but that's my best guess. Let's just hope this is a true social call.
Bright light seemed to erupt from the dark snow, on the windshield. Then something big and dark clonked the windshield a few times. This was followed by... hard to describe. Turned out to be a human, sliding down the snow wet windshield. They had been digging snow by scuffing their boots. Christ, I thought they were going to come through the windshield. That was whoever it was, slipping and falling.
"Fuck..."
Now it sounds like he's rolling over on my hood. The vague wiping motions that must have came from his boots, now came from work gloves. Periodic blinding white light, dark hand-shaped forms washing back and forth as if human windshield wipers. Best I can ascertain between being blinded and squinting, is a face peering into the window. Insulated hood pulled up. Full beard spraying out and around some. One hand grasping something, the other alternates between shielding his own eyes to peer in, and bumping the meat of his fist against the glass.
"Anyone home?"
I waved. Christ, he's got a cheap beer in one hand. I can hear someone else muted now, though I can't make out what they say. I can hear him, though. Our faces are about a foot apart when he peers in.
"No. One guy."
Something, something. He yells up and back at the muted interrogatives.
"You said a white truck, with some gray. Got one, right here."
Something.
"Old timer, I can't leave this poor asshole here like this."
Something.
"How in the fuck, am I supposed to know that."
Something, then back to me.
"Hey, chief. You drop your wife off somewhere?"
I shook my head, no.
"Var? Its fine. Come on up."
"Someone found us. Great."
"Yeah. The natives emerge to greet us. Be nice."
"I'm always nice. Usually."
She wiggled and slid up into the passenger side of the bench seat. He waved his beer can at her, then turned his attention back to whoever was up on the road.
"Got some lady now."
Something louder.
"How the hell would I know. She just popped up, like he was getting a god damn blowjob."
Again, muted stage left.
"Yeah. Go get in the truck, stay warm. I got this. My fucking job, you know."
Now its another little fist drop on the glass.
"You're all good, chief. I got you."
He slapped the hood to punctuate his promise, then I thought perhaps he was going back up. No. He disappeared under the front of my pickup. I know he's under the truck now. I caught the faintest pinpoint of light around my throttle cable and its tight path through the engine wall. This is a new one. We're being rescued by the human groundhog.
He ended his white subterranean navigation by coming up on Var's passenger side. Macabre image, I swear. Scratching and clawing his gloved hands up, until he found the lip of the window. He wiggled first his body and then his head and shoulders until he was crouching at her window. He appeared to be nothing else so much as a human cartoon bug that had hit the vehicle. He was scrunched up against it, but fought the constriction that trapped him. He lurched upwards, driving and straining his head and shoulders vertical. Twisting and turning, until he was in more of a natural standing pose.
"Hey lady. If you can get the window down, this goes quicker."
I have manual windows and door locks. A lifetime of used vehicles has taught me those are some of the first things to go. Manual? Lasts about forever. Do I have to lean over while driving alone to roll the passenger side window down? I sure do. Small price to pay for things that just work and keep on working. Var looked at me, and I assented by bobbing my face a few times. She worked the window down.
He's got his motions down, and why wouldn't he. This is his job. He got back down and retraced his white tunnel back to the front of the truck. Up on the hood, and onto the roof. Over again and now he has his boot on the open windowsill. Tan work gloves darkened from work and sweat and now snow. I recognize the finger-hold, from a friend of mine that climbs like a monkey. Under-hook. The average person only thinks of fingertips on top of a finger-hold. You can accomplish the same thing in reverse. Fingers pulling up on a little cleft. His giant easy under-hook is the top of the open window.
He leaned back several times, before launching himself up and out and back. It looked like he was swimming. He repeated this whole procedure several times. Back under to the front. To the roof via the hood. Swimming off of standing on the window frame. I see it now, he's making an opening around the door.
Var could now just manage to squeeze out of the passenger door even with as little swing as it had. He rammed it open several times for several more inches when it was my turn.
"Come on. Follow me."
I suppose we resembled young groundhogs following mom. He retraced his route in. Crawling under and worming up to the front of the pickup. Up onto the hood and finally the roof. From there, he had what to me appeared to be a decent quality climbing rope. With a real carabiner on the end, a big one. Not just a glorified key ring. Not emblazoned with the infamous disclaimer line... not to be used for climbing. And not a real climbing one, either. This was the bigger, thicker, heavier industrial suspension version. The kind that holds up equipment and walkways on bridge work. Load limit in thousands of pounds stamped prominently into the side, along with official code numbers to verify its the real deal. I'm impressed.
We followed the rope up the hill and out. Swimming and wading through snow, with the rope holding us upright for purchase. It was nice to be up and out with help on scene, no doubts there. What wasn't nice was coming out of our little snow cave we had been in. Snow is more trapped air than frozen water. Its actually a great insulator. Wind robs a structure of any warmth it has inside even faster. We were way more comfortable when still trapped. It had been a while, and the temperature was really diving. At least the snow that was still falling had shifted from those big wet lake effect flakes, and was now turning into those little well below freezing pinpoint dot flakes. I read once or twice that the Eskimo have dozens of words for different kinds of snow. I wonder what kind this is.
We both took turns thanking him, congratulating him, all that. Crawling in the snow tunnel had smelled like any dive bar. Cheap beer has its own scent patina. He was friendly about it all, then waltzed over all casual to reach into his truck bed tool box. Beer.
"Anyone wanna beer?"
No one seemed to desire such a thing. Screw it. My earlier phrase came back to me. The natives emerge to greet us. Friendly native. My gears clicked and whirred upstairs. Tow truck guy. Jitney. Off the books. That wrecked or disabled car I can't find? This might be a great resource. He likely has friends imitating what he's doing, or knows of others. You don't work long in any field, without meeting fellow workers in your same line of work. Off the books was just a phrase, until it repeated itself inside my head a few times.
If I can't find a disabled car? Of all the databases in the world that JR back at the FBI Hoover data center can hook into, not one would ever come up with any scene where he liberated a stuck vehicle. I winked at Szarabjorna on the sly. She gave me a little face shrug. Whatever you do, I'll just go with it. I jumped out of my normal character and into another one I know well.
"Hell, son. I want two of em."
He cackled and put one in each of my hands. He got a second one as well. He held his beer sideways, and drove his thick callused thumb down after biting off his work glove to hold it. Like a can opener, near the base of his can. When he opened it carefully, he could chug it with no slugging and swirling. A high school or college beer party game. I let him do mine, then drained it. We both burped and giggled, then opened our seconds to drink normal. Zar looked at me, grabbed a single one, and began to sip hers like an adult.
Zar's just following my lead. Her facial glances give me this knowledge. I've known Merry longer than her, but not by that far. She came with Merry like a package deal. We can communicate like any long standing couple can. We can talk outside the conversation, share facial expressions and body language, all that. Small wonder strangers will take her for my wife or girlfriend.
Merry and all her psychology degrees, her experience with running therapy. Little things rub off on you and add up over time. I want to guess about this guy. I know his type. Tall redneck. Mechanical and working with tools in his hands. Work ethic. Go get em type. Hustler. He's a happy drunk. Sarcasm for humor. Irreverent and outgoing. A joker. He comes across as a dim alcoholic, but its just his redneck window dressing. He has the intelligent eyes, the emotional face. Not the dull stare of some inebriated fool you might expect.
What I took for his girlfriend was leaning out of the side of her front passenger window rolled down. Round face and features. The way she sits, she's short. Glancing in, she looks like one of those short extra curvy girls. Riding that edge of a little overweight for her height, but with the exaggerated curvature to the hips and thighs and calves. I'm sure she's a tad more popular with local guys than you'd guess if you only know her height and weight. She has that cherubic cuteness that not only saves her, but seems to elevate her into something prettier than she seems. Hell, a lot of guys prefer this to the more box standard skinny girl.
She's quiet and polite, but she has a little smile. She shook her head in faux exasperation at his juvenile antics. Its plastic and fake. Its clear she likes him. There's a normal guy inside me that rates women like any guy will. That inner guy is wondering what she looks like swimming in the summers. She could well be one of those girls that surprise you all of a sudden when they show up at the pool. She could be one of those women that look like an amateur porn star, somehow sexier for the extra curves and big bosom. Even her winter clothing couldn't hide the built in dual flotation devices she had been granted once she hit puberty.
His exaggerated but warm and open personality informed us she was Betty. We were not to worry about her last name, though. She had a pollack last name, and he can't be fucked to remember how to spell it right. His words, not mine. I introduce Merry or Zar as the little lady, on most occasions. At six foot even and five eleven each, its my little built in joke. Little lady, that tall. His is to refer to her as his hag. Her smile and twinkle in her eyes tells me this is their thing. Hell, I know this routine. Watched my parents go through it for how many years. What do people say? Start naming the kids now. I can imagine these two married and snipping about where the boots and coats get dropped when you come in wet and dirty.
He's in that indeterminate male age range. Early twenties or late twenties, somewhere in there. I put her a couple years under him. Or she just has that cute youthful face that lets you think that. According to Pounder? She's a pollack, but she's one of the brighter ones. He said he's Johnny Bull and whatever else fucked his great grandma around then. He'd fit right in with the boys around the hunting camp fire, drinking beer. Some guys would come off as dicks acting and talking like he does. He pulls it off, and it works for him. He proclaimed himself a tit man, too.
Truck is near top of the line, for what he does with it. I can hear the expensive diesel chugging. Those semi tractor pipes going up the sides. Looks like a goose neck in the back of the bed underneath it all. Not a little one, either. This thing would haul a giant cattle trailer, no problem. Four wheel drive. Six tires. Lockout hubs. Dependable. The big wheel centers that resemble again, small versions of the big tractor trailers. That means big axles and a bigger transmission. This thing is more expensive than most sports cars, and it has extras.
Big light bars for lights and horns and antennas. Brush guard from hell and a big winch on both the front and the back. He's got a collection of real big linked hook chains and thick tow straps. His cute little curvy polish girlfriend was daddy's little helper, too. I jumped in when she went to lean all her might into dragging a long heavy chain Jacob Marley would have been proud to sport. She tried to wave me off, I insisted. Zar is watching me because she's imitating whatever I do. She helped him drag his chain.
He disappeared down the open topped snow tunnel we came up from, following his rope until he could get to my truck. He yelled up if I had a hitch in the front or the back. I said both, and he all but cheered. Betty chained up to a thick tree across the road. He came up and went to an enviable collection of hitch balls.
"I'm changing out yer front ball. So my big chain hook locks just right on this one. Is that inch and a half, or inch and five eighths. You know?"
"Five eighths."
"Hey. Pleasure working with a professional. Grab another beer."
He had an array of lug wrenches. After some muted cussing, he came up and handed me my ball and bolt. He got himself another beer, and this time Betty walked the thick cable out of the back winch to keep it neat as he worked the control. He dragged it down and came back up. He wasn't about to let his expensive tow line disappearing over the hill get marred by scene conditions. He sledgehammered a thick metal spike down with a giant roller on top to guide the line. I'd never seen that before.
"Assholes skimp on winches, and line. I get the good shit. I can do something like ten thousand, on a dead lift. Minus length of line, that comes off the top. The better line is worth it, but that roller protects it."
Pounder and Betty did this all the time, it was too obvious. They had yells and hand signals. She jogged her front winch line back in super slow. As things began to happen, his big truck slid around and oriented itself. We went even slower, a few feet at a time until he had his satisfaction met that things weren't bound up funny. Between swigs of cheap beer, he just gave an intermittent running commentary.
"There's some fucking formula, for the rolling weight, coming out of the dead lift weight minus line length. Then another formula, for the drag weight. But you're a rolling weight, I put your transmission in neutral. Then, there's another formula, for your weight, your rolling weight getting changed on account of the angle of the hill I'm coming up."
He burped and nodded.
"I got all that, on the big towing GPS in there. My one boss replaced his, I got that one for almost nothing. But I can bring a semi tractor around with this line, if my winch could do it. Bigger is better, right?"
"Hell yeah. Go big or go home."
"There you go."
We all had to stand off in a gaggle just in case things went awry. After all the equipment and setup though, in the end he could sip a beer and jog the winch and lock, jog the winch and lock. Watching the line. He entertained us with stories about how guys that didn't know what they were doing, could easily flip their own truck over instead of squaring up.
"I'm gonna say, I don't know. Guessing. Thousand pounds of snow dragging up with it. I could dig it out around it, but fuck it. Just get bigger winches, bigger chains, better line. Time is money, and now I can move bigger shit around."
Swig of his cheap beer.
"I keep stopping and locking, so I can touch the line. I can feel if it starts to shit the bed. Wouldn't want your truck to get almost up and go flying. Feels like little tickles coming up the line, before it even starts. I feel that, I can just lock down good. Come-along to some more roller spikes. Take the load off."
He shrugged and sipped.
"We're good though."
The truck came up slow and steady. Off to the side with Zar, I dropped my arms over her shoulders from behind as if it were all a loose affectionate hug. It gave me a chance to put a word in her ear, like whispering a sweet nothing to your girlfriend.
"Honey? Do me a favor."
"Hmm."
"Do girl talk with your new best friend, would you? I wanna try to---"
"I know. Off the books towing guy. You're going to try to pick his brains for your little car you need to find."
"Smart girl. I want as much time I can get. Help me out?"
Zar put her arm over her head and back. I got the warm gentle squeeze that said she was onboard. Once she engaged Betty and seemed to be hitting it off, the first thing I discovered was how the logistics of this had come together. The old man that was nice enough to let us rent his secondhand shop basement, had been the real hero. Or maybe his wife, I suppose. He had mentioned dropping off pork chops and side dishes the next morning.
The wife it would seem had heard his tale of good fortune. Yet she demanded after hearing about our situation, that he was going to take us the pork chops and dinner plates while it was still warm. The phrase he used was that he had to wait to eat, because his was hot anytime he wanted.
So he doesn't find us back at the shop. He goes back home and eats. The wife now sends him out after dinner is long over. To check on us, and to once again get us warm food. We're still gone, and he got suspicious while waiting. We didn't leave his extra shop keys behind to notify him we had gone home, so he started to think we might have went out looking. Conditions had gotten worse, and... next thing you know, he contacted Pounder.
Both knew to check the diner, and we had left there just before getting stuck here. That, was how we were located. Another tidbit of errata was that Pounder was ignoring my channel thirteen microphone checks, because he won't respond until he's done with the call he's on. So there was an irony. I was next on his list, because he was already out looking for me.
Background of the rescue out of the way, the next interesting thing came up. I explained about what Szarabjorna described seeing. The avalanche. Pounder agreed that if an incoming vehicle did wreck right in front of us into the side of the road snowdrift, sure. We could get an avalanche that way. But then how did we get shoved over the hill, though. I asked what he thought. A couple sips off of his cheap beer had him thinking out loud, that it was an awful good description of a big plow running.
Hello. I asked what that would do. First off, he described how big a state plow truck would appear. This I knew, from following my CB buddy getting to Zar when I first set out on my quest. The more he described how big the snow-load throw was with one of those, he added that the trick to driving one that big? Was visibility. The drivers were well accustomed to staying on the road, but had what he called reverse tunnel vision. They concentrated on the road ahead. It was too easy for an abandoned vehicle to blend in. This situation was worse at night, and worse for light colored vehicles. He shrugged and pointed out my mostly white truck, with gray details. It was like camouflage, in a way.
He had driven private salt trucks before, and got to talk with a few state plow guys at truck stops working that side gig before. Which was how he knew this.
The car I'm looking for? Is small and light colored.
Gentle social engineering kept him describing things. Also, he pointed it out. His next call? Had been me anyways. Screw it and take a break. I broke out some pig and deer jerky, and what guy drinking beer taking a break would turn down as much jerky as he could stuff into his face. I know I wouldn't. The next possible pay dirt, was him bullshitting about how plow trucks owned by the state or on lease to them? Basically couldn't be charged with any accident as long as they had their plow throwing and their big yellow lights on. Any accident? It was legally assumed to be your fault, even if he runs into you.
Sounds like a dick move, but when you take into account how long of hours those guys have to work. How limited their visibility is. How essential the job is. The carte blanche on accidents, makes a strange bit of sense.
Next up, was him describing how I couldn't have stopped in any worse of a spot. The way the road narrows suddenly. The side of the road I'm on. The curve of the turn, the grade before and after this landing. It all combined together to make this the worst possible spot for a big plow truck to see me.
Huh.
This is the exact spot, where I lose my object vehicle I can't find.
Pounder had been looking for me here once he drove past, because he could see the slight indentation where I had gone over. He knows what to look for, he's quite unique in this regard. He hunts disabled cars in inclement weather, for a side hustle. And what's more he seems to be good at it. He described poking with a long fiberglass stick, to find vehicles in snow.
All excited with everything I was getting, and already suspecting that little benign coincidences are adding up? This friendly young drunk guy next proceeded to casually floor me.
"Hell. I got some little car out of just this spot. What. Couple nights ago. State plow truck. Like I figure got you two guys."
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I'd already had that good slight shiver, thinking too many slight coincidences are all starting to add up. But the one interconnecting piece of shared data?
This location.
"Local, I guess."
He swigged like he did between bits of conversation.
"Nah. Some city asshole."
"Eh. He have a nice four wheel drive, like you?"
"Oh, hell no. You know those stupid little go karts they call cars? One of them sorry excuses for a puddle jumper. My big side by side? Has a bigger engine, I bet."
"Pounder?"
"Yeah."
"Wanna make a hundred bucks extra."
"A tip? Sure thing. The more beer? The merrier, chief."
"Let's play a game. Name that car."
"For a chance at a hundred bucks? Sure."
"I got a picture, of a guy and a car. You, describe the car you got out of this spot. And the guy driving. Was he alone?"
"Yeah."
Between him and Betty deciding, I got pretty much the same description that the waitress had given me. And another coincidence, too. I now remember the weird place and way the guy had parked. Across the street, and all that deep snow to walk through. Without winter boots, either.
Same way he's parked here. Like I had been.
I got him talking about the particulars of a visibility impaired big plow truck driver. This guy, is sort of like my expert consultant. I'm treating him like a forensic scene examiner, though he doesn't realize it. The plow truck driver, if its the big state job? He's throwing so much damn snow at once, and that much snow can push a car along like a mudslide carries vehicles away. This spot here sports no guardrail, as well as the other things that all make this the worst place to be when one goes by throwing big in a deep snowfall.
Its exacerbated right now, just because of the depth of the snow. Yet, its even worse again. Because the state plow trucks doing these rural state routes? Are running by so infrequently in this heavy non-stop snow, it makes for an extra big avalanche.
When his description matched what I was looking for, as well as I could hope for? I gave him his hundred dollar tip. On top of the three hundred he was charging already. Lots of expensive diesel looking. Not just a car on the side of the road. Down over a hill, requiring pulled up was more. I asked about my other idea. He couldn't come up with many tunnels or anything like that. He admitted there were a few ponds and little lakes around, but nothing you could just drive up to, and he was sure there was nothing beyond a creek along any of the roads around here. But nothing that would hide a whole car, even a tiny one. And all the creeks had guardrails. Even if you went through a guardrail, it was obvious someone went over.
No. I don't know why or how. But this spot I'm standing in right now? Is for some reason, some kind of Bermuda Triangle for cars and drivers while this bad snowstorm is going on. And a plow truck is probably somehow related to the whole thing. The stranger part is that the big state plow truck, well might not even know the part he's playing in all this.
I just can't imagine that all this coincidence is an accident. My information gold mine is too easy to gently poke for more information.
"Want another beer? I'm supposing you don't care if I get one more."
"Hell, chief. Help yourself, if you gonna get me one too. I'll get anyone out of any car, and even drive them into town. Everyone gets a free beer if they want. I don't even need paid, for that. Hell. Keeps the local cops off my back, I help out some. But if you want the vehicle pulled out? There's your fee. But... that, and a hundred dollar tip on top of it, I mean go on and drink a whole six pack. Like I give a shit."
"That guy here, you got out. City guy. He gets hurt? Or, he just drives off."
"Oh, that. No. Dumb ass stays right here. He's all happy I got him out, naturally. But, he's all excited to sit here. Fucking retard. Like he's trying to get hit again. I mean, fuck him. Just another couple hundred bucks, if he's stupid enough to wait here until he goes over again. Call me an asshole and all, but if you're willing to keep paying me for pulling you, I mean... I'm happy with that."
I gave him another hundred dollar tip. To forget me, pulling me up, everything. I asked if he needed an explanation.
"Chief, it don't sound like you're up to no good or anything like that. You're just looking for your buddy from where you work. Fine by me. Hell, you find where that dumb ass got stuck again? Call me. You guys are all just making me more beer money. Sorry if I sound like an asshole and all."
I assured him. He was no asshole.
I can feel it now. That spreading tingle. This all has to be labeled something. I'd have said before this moment, that I had nothing. This isn't success. But what it is, is the thread. I can hang my hat on this. I can say my gut tells me I might have something. I can risk more, go out on limbs. There's an answer somewhere in all this mess. This feeling, is invigorating. I live for it. Only someone like myself, would have tramped around, and given this much to get to here. Which I admit, is still next to nowhere. Yet, its not nowhere. Its right next to it. On some scale from zero to ten? I had a zero. But now, I got a one. There's a pearl down in this mud puddle somewhere, I just need to find it.
Good analogy. We think there might be a pearl came off, and it landed in this giant mud puddle. We think, we don't know. I still don't know, but I can now suspect. The germ of an idea that the missing pearl might have fallen into that giant mud puddle? Its now possible. I'm now up against diminishing returns, though. No way around the clock ticking. The longer I take, the less chance the guy is still alive. But with a thread, I can stay on this. I can at least get the car, or the car and the body recovery. Document what might well have happened.
In my estimation, its rare that humble legwork fails to pay off.
Zar is playing along for me. She's just like my own precious Merry. Intelligent, and has both book smarts and street smarts. Her sideways glances tell me she's enjoying her role. Playing along, acting. Happy to help. Part of our little team. Both girls played soccer at one of the biggest top ten universities in a tough conference for it. They know what team means.
Szarabjorna's one lifted eyebrow questions me. Go this far? My spreading laconic grin says yes. The little shrug says anything you want. We let ourselves be "talked into" a little time with these two. I paid the old man's promise to pay for this. Gave him an extra hundred dollar bill, too. Hundred dollar bills, are just little green pieces of paper right now. If I can trade worthless pieces of paper, for thing I want and need? More power to the paper. I was told, all expenses paid. I trust it. I don't even care if I don't get it back. Not now. I'm intrigued. I have enough money to eat and live, and more. Old man feels guilty. He'll leave our home cooked meal back at the shop.
We accepted an offer to go back and have a couple beers at Pounder's home base. My second wind won't last forever, but its swelling to feel that little bit of wind in my sails. No more water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. This won't last long. There's no denying the fact that I'm running on fumes. But knowing there's something possible, is enough to burn those fuel fumes. A couple hours of half social graces, coupled with half party time.
I get to look at Pounder's toys. A couple quads and side by sides. A couple used boats, from Jon boat to a decent size pontoon. Correction, tri-toon. Three pontoons, not the usual two. He said three pontoons goes to extra load carrying and lateral stability as well. A couple drinks, and I got to see a video he liked. Some asshole made a video of a tri-toon going over 100 miles per hour. The asshole in question, had no less than three 300 horsepower outboards going full throttle. Now that's an asshole after my own heart.
Like any good redneck? I hooted and hollered a little. How awesome was that. I'm on this with no manpower and expertise possible. I have to create my own out of thin air. I have something of an expert, on cars lost in the deep snow. A couple of pieces of green paper, can get me things. I just need to figure out what I might need. One look around this really big garage tells me I've found my mechanical and motor pool.
Pounder and Uncle, have any used piece of equipment they can locate free or cheap. They're good at working on things, and can scrounge parts. That rare combination of mechanical ability, coupled with both the ability and willingness to make it work like new. I'm honest when I say I like the guy.
Talk came around to us guys talking up our girls. I hung on Zar and bragged her up. What unique things I liked about her. What most guys appreciated, other's didn't. Height. Strength. Athleticism. Attitude, and a good one. I got that warm drunkard's smile. Then he shared back. Man, you should have seen the young Betty doing gymnastics. Really something. Her good attitude, as well. We both toasted it. Fuck what everyone else wants, when what we want tickled us just right.
Zar had serious dance training when young, before shifting over to sports as a necessity. To survive, though we leave that out. When Betsy did some little gymnastics displays, she really was still crisp and tight at it. Pounder had that smile. Yeah, drink it in. My eye for talent, why was she even on the market. Zar spied an old volleyball, so she started doing her thing. She can juggle a soccer ball like nothing you've ever seen. Kick it off of walls, hit objects like a sharpshooter.
I even made a few little games up, so she could show off a little more. It keeps this brain picking party going. A safety whistle in the old Jon boat, provided drunken fun to blow it and giggle. I placed the old volleyball over a ways, and stalked back. Here. Blow the whistle, and I mean wait a while. Out of nowhere. See which girl gets that ball first.
Eventually, a thoroughly soused new buddy blew it. Both of our prize girls went for it. Zar though, it wasn't even fair. Just when Betty was starting to slow down, to get the ball and prevent overshooting it? Zar slid across the smooth cement floor, and cupped her right leg around it. She stood up on her left leg, her right knee still cinching the ball. Now I got to smile back. I know what's coming. No hands, she dropped it and juggled it without it even hitting the floor. Then head butted it back to where it had come from, the Jon boat.
Last, was the drunken secrets. A rite of passage for males drinking socially. What was I really here for. Its not like I didn't flash it around enough already, he knows or will soon know out of gossip. Showed him my FBI consultant's ID I keep hidden hanging around my neck. We ended with typical guy diplomacy. In my role, Pounder started it. Male rite of passage. Insults, that are admissions of affection. Hey, its the best straight guys can do.
"I'm dying here, chief. Gonna pass the fuck out soon. But, I gotta tell you. For a fucking pig? You ain't half bad. Stop out while you're here. That's if you need anything, or just to get half kicked again. You guys are okay."
"Well, thanks. And for yet one more ugly inbred son of a bitch? You ain't too shabby yourself."
We declined their offer of one of the cots here. After drunken redneck quad riding late at night all over creation, sometimes best to take a nap here. His quad riding crew uses that feature, nothing to it. I felt that nice twinge of guilt. Because I actually liked the guy. And I knew I was acting and working him in case I needed anything I could dream up in pursuit of my objective.
Screw it, I can make that up later.
Betty had already winked at us, and purloined his truck keys. With us leaving, she would drive them home, wherever that even was. Zar demanded my own truck keys. I stayed in character and "fought" her on it.
"Keys, party boy."
I leaned on her five eleven shoulders, playing my part to the hilt.
"Maybe. Depends, though."
"On what."
"What do I get for my keys. Gotta get something back in trade."
"You don't get your ass kicked by a girl, and you're too drunk to defend yourself."
This was high entertainment for Betty and Pounder. I slapped the keys in Zar's hand.
"Fair trade, little one."
Being honest, I thought I was getting my keys back. Acting show is over, after all. But nothing doing.
"Panic? Getting pulled over, is off the table. I know you. You're so tired you can barely see straight. You kept drinking with your new buddy, that you needed to make friends with. And either one alone? Yeah, sure. Both together? Uh uh. I wanna make it home."
She did quiz me. What did she need to know. I told her, nothing. Go the way we came? Just... drive the speed limit. Its what this truck is decked out like this for, anyways. My head was slumping and my eyes were closing and needed forced back open on the drive. Her parking was a blur of what could only under the most charitable of circumstances be called memory.
Zar took charge, and I didn't mind it. I was reeling. While drinking didn't help any, it was the running on fumes thing. You can skip a night's sleep and soldier on. You can go twenty or twenty two out of every twenty-four, too. But what can't be done for any appreciable length of time, is what I'm forcing myself to do. Lose a night's sleep, and think I can go twenty plus every day and keep my shit together.
I started to say I'd do this and that to get ready for eating and bed, but she cut me off.
"Shut the fuck up."
I just nodded.
"All right. Level with me. I kinda already know, though. You got somewhere. You have somewhere to start."
I started to explain, and I got an index finger in my face.
"Yes, no, maybe. Pick one."
That's another one she shares with my Merry. Yes no maybe. I just think its another of those cutest things ever.
"Yes."
"Conversation? Over. I'm dead on my feet, and I got a night of sleep you didn't get. You're not going to drop over from a heart attack, not on my watch. I love it, I admire it, but... show's over. You. Downstairs. Now."
I started to get out foil wrapped paper plates and paper bowls, to get dinner microwaved and ready. I got more attitude.
"Move it!"
I just bobbed my head and wandered down the basement steps. It continued.
"Over there. Go."
She tested the water coming out of the jury rigged shower, if you want to even grace it as much as calling it that.
"Good enough. Bath time."
I started to protest, but she'd have none of it.
"Panic? How many times did we shower together, over the years. Hmm. The baby wipe baths? It works, I'll give you that one. But you know how good you'll feel, with hot water. Get cracking."
I just nodded more, and started getting undressed. She's right. We've seen each other naked. Showered and bathed together many times. Hell, made love more times than we could ever count, it went on for years. I leaned against the ancient stone and cement basement wall in that corner, and did relax at the hot water reddening my skin. Little slice of heaven, really.
She made a couple trips up and down. A tiny microwave, the kind with just a timer dial and no other controls beyond a one to ten power level. She handed me a plastic squeeze bottle of dish soap. Yeah, it works in a pinch. Next time she was back, I heard little wet slaps. She had found cheap flip flops for us upstairs. I scooted them on, after making sure I had clean feet. An army does march on its feet, and its literal.
The next time I noticed she was back, I was being handed two big towels. It barely registered she was wearing nothing but flip flops herself.
"You done?"
I nodded.
She pointed over towards the sleeping bag bed. I'm too wiped out to ask any questions. I could hear her showering. She went for a guy shower. To get clean, and little more than that. I heard the microwave, then the next thing I knew, she was standing over me juggling paper plates. Two each hand, one on each upturned inner forearm. It reminded me of Merry's steakhouse waitress days, somehow. I took her load. She was wearing a pair of my boxers, and I got handed a fresh pair as well. I slid them on and covered back up.
"We don't have time for that whole, watch Zar sleep, gentleman bullshit. So don't even think about trying it."
She had just kicked her own flip flops off and was about to climb in, when we both heard a weird noise. Sounded like a baby crying. We traced it as coming from the door to the alley. A cat. She looked at me.
"Fuck it. See if it'll come in."
She stepped once again into her cheap flip flops, and slapped over and up the sturdy timber steps to that door we had never used before. She got the door unlocked and open, and there was a decent size gray tiger stripe tabby there. Cat just looked up at her. Cat was deciding something. She spoke to it, like I would. Like I'm talking to another human that could understand what I'm saying.
"Kitty? You got about ten seconds, to decide."
She was already shivering, the temperature was diving something fierce. Cat seemed to be either deciding if he was allowed in here, or was he wondering what the hell we were here for. Hell, we might be in his home, not the other way around.
"Kitty. Its too cold to play this game. The train, is, leaving."
She did the slow motion door closing trick. Cat hopped onto the top step landing when it was close.
"Smart kitty."
She hustled, shivering bad back over to me and the double winter sleeping bag with the extra blankets and some old foam pads we had out. The cat sat and made sure we were a safe bet. It shook the snow off before rubbing, licking and scratching a few ice balls off. A final stretch, and it pranced around like it owned the place. A squirt of piss, right by the door frame. A pile of sand I hadn't noticed in a far corner? It shit and kicked some back over it. It had a box of old rags and clothes I hadn't noticed before.
We ate in bed. The cat once dry and now warmer, sauntered over and sat to regard us. We decided we were done eating, and shoved what was left towards it. A few sniffs, and it passed all tests. Breaded pork chop, what was left of the mashed potatoes and gravy. Green beans passed feline muster, but not the creamed corn.
I remembered being told to shove rags in the space under that alley door, but Zar insisted she'd do it. Now back, she kicked off those cheap flip flops and once again, attempted to get in under the covers. I got a sweet warning.
"Not one word. I don't have time for this shit."
I was far too tired to even think about enjoying the feeling of her warming up against me. We had our own sleeping positions, and our bodies still remembered them. I got the leg and arm over me, it hadn't changed. Her face in my shoulder, too.
I couldn't tell you what happened after that.