Commotion from a rumble strip woke me up when the car I was in drifted from the road. The Kid Who Thinks He’s Grown was driving. We both snapped to alertness, there outside Carbondale. It was after 4 a.m., and we had a dawn appointment in Branson, Missouri.
I tried to steal another hour’s sleep, since the Kid always tells me he’s got things under control. But after working all day and now driving through the night, he must’ve needed to talk to stay with it. He asked, “Why are we even out here handling this?” He truly didn’t know, but he never needed a special reason to do his job well. He always seemed glad to be included.
It was only the two of us this trip rolling toward the Show-Me state. Before I answered I thought about listening ears, but I was about 98 percent sure we weren’t bugged that year.
“Our guy was sitting on a very large supply of fresh… uh, widgets, let’s say, widgets. And all of those widgets were on credit he owed to the boss. As in he’d planned to pay the boss after selling those, um, widgets.”
The Kid turned down the heater and cracked his window a smidge. “And he ran off with it? With the product?”
“Lets say widgets, but naw, it was worse than that. No one benefited whatsoever. He must’ve been sampling way too much of that, uh, of those…”
“Widgets?”
“Right. Yeah, he’d had too much of something strong. Our buddy Nicky told me how it was. Nicky had to see the guy, but when he got to his doorstep, the door was wide open. Dude was flushing the last of it down the toilet. He was sweating and talking nonsense. Nicky was like, ‘Are you out of your mind?’”
“But the guy said he had to get rid of it all because the Feds were outside. He kept shouting about the Feds busting in any second. There was a mess of, uh, widgets all over the bathroom and the hallway.”
“And Nicky, he always has his fine-tuned cop-radar on. Nicky couldn’t believe he’d skipped right in and missed a problem that bad. He looked outside. Parked at the curb was a package delivery truck. FedEx. While the two guys were looking out, the delivery driver returns from dropping a package across the street. Before getting in his van, he smiles and waves. Nicky waves back. Then it’s on to the next address.”
The Kid thinks I’m making it up, “Come the fuck on. I’m not new here.” I do in fact bullshit him from time to time, but not right now. Never about work.
“Really. Whenever something seems too stupid to be true, that’s when it must be true, because people who make things up want to sound reasonable.”
“FedEx,” he said, “They run the tightest ship in the shipping business.”
I said, “Pretty sure you’re thinking of the other company. Anyway, the guy started to panic hard. Nicky excused himself to make a phone call, but he told the guy to sit tight. By the time the boss got a crew over there, our guy was long gone with his suitcases. Apparently to Branson.”
Lost objects are always in the last place that you look. Maybe the guy chose that town because it was the last place you’d expect. I’m not a detective, but I found a printout of a map route to the destination, still on his printer. He left quickly.
Only whined in my own head, but I’m feeling too old for these marathon trips.
It brought me no happiness knowing this guy was finishing up his last-ever night’s sleep as we drove. Sometimes, when we would get right up to the key moment we traveled for, I’d feel a wave of nausea, a stone in my stomach. I could barely stand to follow through. My temperament was always wrong for this kind of work, but I’ve known enough to keep that failing to myself.
Way back when I was in school, younger than The Kid here (who may be 28), Mother wanted me to study law. Become someone important. Dad was in accounting, the most boring occupation that easily pays one’s bills. Dad strongly believed that I should work with him. There was too much life in me though to take suggestions. I told them both that I had to follow my music, a dear dream close to my heart. I was real earnest.
That never completely worked, but I tried for a while before I started what I do now.
We reached the edge of Branson right about full light. We found the guy’s car parked outside a budget motel, right where the printout told us to look. I indulged myself for a beat too long, wondering if this was a place that the guy and his wife first discovered together on their honeymoon. It was very much that kind of place. The boss seems to always send us to manage people who have spouses and children. I’m not an especially lucky person.
Maybe none of us would have a part in such an unfortunate development, if only this guy’s neighbor had ordered something that UPS delivers. A seemingly inconsequential difference. Drawing the short straw can feel pretty random.
The Kid saw me hesitate, a real people-reader. He said, “Hey, I’ll get this one, chief. You sit tight a minute.”
But I know my job and there’s never a question of if I do it. I screwed the silencer to the end of the barrel, and pulled my mask on. I told myself that the last ten years before the gold mine of social security were going to go by in a heartbeat.
I said, “No sense in you messing up nice clothes. These are from Goodwill.”
The guy we were managing must’ve felt safe so far from home. He answered right away when I knocked. I, uh, let’s say I ‘tempered his expectations.’ I will burn my clothes later on. I told myself not to think of his innocent family, so immediately that was my only thought. You can’t just will yourself into being one of those people lucky enough to lack human emotions. There’s a cost to what we do.
As we started the epic drive back, I put on my jazz combo’s recent four song demo. Five real musicians, an all-volunteer force. Oh man! The clarity on these tracks. Crystalline. It’s almost hard to believe that is us we’re hearing. We are killin’ it.
Maybe it’s finally our better-late-than-never year. Between some airplay and a running stand of Thursday gigs down at the Airport Ramada Inn. On Thursdays I journey into the music itself, and forget about the more unpleasant aspects of my job. There’s a hell of a lot to forget. You don’t even know.
I feel like something good is coming, friends. I clutch at even a whiff of that feeling.
Image: An illuminated Motel sign in the dark with tree brances in frotn from Foundry from Pixabay
Hi Todd,
It’s a slice of life (or death) and there is no need for any back story. The reader can work out what is happening.
This is the same as your prequel, the tone and pace were excellent. There was coldness in it with a hint of hope and a touch of conscience.
Really clever story telling!!
All the very best.
Hugh
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