Refrigerator art
adorned Grandma's casket
with the deepest love
Finger paints could portray.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Jeff
He lived in a small house trailer on the outskirts of a small town, where secrets are as rare as compliments, and rumors as rampant as boredom.
He had nurtured a secret all summer. Groomed it, drooled over it, and tonight by the light of a harvest moon he was going to reap the rewards of - 16 prize pot plants.
His shiny car rolled down the drive like an "M&M". And the Feds were on him like ants before he came to a stop. FBI agents came out of the weeds of last year's garden; they came over the roof of his trailer; drug dogs broke through his screen doors to rush him; a helicopter landed in the north pasture. Guns clicked, men grunted, dogs barked.
He froze.
They yanked him out of the car by his collar. Roughly frisked him. Yelling in Policeese so quickly that it sounded like a Cold War language. Finding nothing, they grabbed him by the hair and began their multi-media presentation.
"We got the goods on you, boy." reeled one.
"Don't deny it." jumped in a short jerk.
They twisted his head toward some 8x10 color aerial photos of the plants.
"Your busted big time." They swung him around, pressing his arthritic back into his car door. They shoved his nose into a box of plaster of paris.
"Recognize that!?" one spat into his ear.
Astonishment hollowed out his senses.
They kicked the side of his knee. The trees amplified a popping sound and he fell.
"That's a mold of your fucking footprint, you dumb ass. They're all around those pretty plants of yours." The agent's own knee buckled like knees sometimes do after orgasm. Suddenly, a dog lurched at him nipping near his crotch. The trainer held up a baggy containing a pair of scissors, "Easy, here, found your pruning shears in your bowling bag. "
The night sky suddenly carried sirens. They wailed toward him. Kaleidoscope gravel gave way to sliding tires. He twisted his head into the pain to get a look at the new arrivals. "Great! County and City cops. Now, it'll get personal. Crude humor by the barrel full", he thought.
A rank of Fed boys interceded the county cops. Stopping them cold. The local boys got back in their cars, got on their radios, and pulled away. Away to roadblocks that only locals could imagine were necessary to separate this heinous criminal from their serene city.
Feds cuffed him. shackled him. They forced him down the path past his house trailer, past the trailer and into the timber where his precious pot bore bounty. He wasn't allowed to retrace his own steps to his love. They shoved him awkwardly into the hickory root. Over the summer he had shared particular childhood memories with that hickory root. He stumbled and fell in the waterway. The waterway which he'd come to know through a cycle of seasons like generations of a family. They yanked him to his feet , smearing mud on him, as if they were sponging vinegar into his wounds.
He had never entered this ground without a prayer, an observance of Christmas Carols: the hopes and fears of all the years are met in you tonight. A fed cracked his calves from behind with a night stick. Another hit his back, and he was down. Night dirt swelled in his lungs and distorted his sights. They tore his plants out before his eyes. His plants! His breath tore from his soul with each extraction.
They prodded him back to the trailer. His silence encouraged the agents into a mob of mockery. But he was gone. He didn't hear them. If he had heard them he might have laughed. Did they think they could touch him with mockery? Hell, compared to his family these guys were saps.
No one mentioned an arrest, his rights; they merely took him. Took him to some hospital, some shrink, some tests, some questions, somewhere.
“You're the worst case we've seen.... Dope heads generally have low self-esteem....” That phrase caught his attention. He laughed. He laughed as people do who have lived in Hell and some how escaped. A laugh so dark they backed away.
Until the interrogation. “Users?? Buyers?? Sellers?? Informants???”
They were mere gnats to him, but time grated on. He watched his pale skin grating away, piling up on the floor. It became a huge pile until his breath stirred it about the interrogator's gaze. Suddenly he felt free. His skin gone, adrift. He heard an angelic voice, "Use them. Use them to escape."
He felt giddy." Okay. ... Okay.... I'll tell. But let's trade. I'll give you a name in exchange for place on the Southeast coast.
"No prison time" is all we can offer.
"South East Coastline".
"No prison time."
“He'll kill me.”
"Not in prison."
A trial date was set in the County Seat. He arrived on time with lawyer in tow. The Judge made his entrance. All rose except the DA- a no show. They waited. And waited.
"Clerk give Jennings a call and see what's holding him up."
"Jennings? He ain't the DA no more. He was appointed State's Rep when Kopple died."
"Christ, you're right. Well, who's the DA now?”
Eyes shifted from one set of shrugging shoulders to another. “No one?”
The trial was rescheduled until a new DA was appointed.
The pick-up load of Federal exhibits and evidence never came to bear. The case never went to trial. A first time offender, and a co-operative one at that. Not a known pusher, just a recreational recluse with a green thumb. Off with a fine, some community service, and probation.
He was a new man. Everyone noticed it. Friendlier to everyone, and he called his mother more. He was clean and happy about it. He talked about the Southeast coastline constantly. “Gotta get to where the NASCAR races are”, he'd say. “Love that sound thundering in my chest”. He never managed the money to go.
A local dealer had gone to prison for two years.
About a month after his release there was a fire. a small house trailer on the outskirts of town. The local boys drove out. Volunteer fire fighters shook their heads. Was anyone inside? A shiny car in the drive had melted like chocolate in a plastic bag. Inside they did find a body- of sorts: Some teeth remained, some DNA, some carbon monoxide remained in the blood, some smoke remained in the lungs, and a rifle barrel remained on his chest.
The FBI was never notified. The State Police came onto the scene, but were politely and repeatedly told to leave, "You've no jurisdiction here." The local boys collected the evidence, asked the local contacts who knows what.
The case remains open. Was it a crime of murder or suicide? It remains a puzzle that only the local boys can properly imagine or determine who set the fire, who pulled the trigger, on the outskirts of a small town where secrets are as rare as compliments and rumors as rampant as boredom.
From his grave, my brother still nourishes a secret.
He had nurtured a secret all summer. Groomed it, drooled over it, and tonight by the light of a harvest moon he was going to reap the rewards of - 16 prize pot plants.
His shiny car rolled down the drive like an "M&M". And the Feds were on him like ants before he came to a stop. FBI agents came out of the weeds of last year's garden; they came over the roof of his trailer; drug dogs broke through his screen doors to rush him; a helicopter landed in the north pasture. Guns clicked, men grunted, dogs barked.
He froze.
They yanked him out of the car by his collar. Roughly frisked him. Yelling in Policeese so quickly that it sounded like a Cold War language. Finding nothing, they grabbed him by the hair and began their multi-media presentation.
"We got the goods on you, boy." reeled one.
"Don't deny it." jumped in a short jerk.
They twisted his head toward some 8x10 color aerial photos of the plants.
"Your busted big time." They swung him around, pressing his arthritic back into his car door. They shoved his nose into a box of plaster of paris.
"Recognize that!?" one spat into his ear.
Astonishment hollowed out his senses.
They kicked the side of his knee. The trees amplified a popping sound and he fell.
"That's a mold of your fucking footprint, you dumb ass. They're all around those pretty plants of yours." The agent's own knee buckled like knees sometimes do after orgasm. Suddenly, a dog lurched at him nipping near his crotch. The trainer held up a baggy containing a pair of scissors, "Easy, here, found your pruning shears in your bowling bag. "
The night sky suddenly carried sirens. They wailed toward him. Kaleidoscope gravel gave way to sliding tires. He twisted his head into the pain to get a look at the new arrivals. "Great! County and City cops. Now, it'll get personal. Crude humor by the barrel full", he thought.
A rank of Fed boys interceded the county cops. Stopping them cold. The local boys got back in their cars, got on their radios, and pulled away. Away to roadblocks that only locals could imagine were necessary to separate this heinous criminal from their serene city.
Feds cuffed him. shackled him. They forced him down the path past his house trailer, past the trailer and into the timber where his precious pot bore bounty. He wasn't allowed to retrace his own steps to his love. They shoved him awkwardly into the hickory root. Over the summer he had shared particular childhood memories with that hickory root. He stumbled and fell in the waterway. The waterway which he'd come to know through a cycle of seasons like generations of a family. They yanked him to his feet , smearing mud on him, as if they were sponging vinegar into his wounds.
He had never entered this ground without a prayer, an observance of Christmas Carols: the hopes and fears of all the years are met in you tonight. A fed cracked his calves from behind with a night stick. Another hit his back, and he was down. Night dirt swelled in his lungs and distorted his sights. They tore his plants out before his eyes. His plants! His breath tore from his soul with each extraction.
They prodded him back to the trailer. His silence encouraged the agents into a mob of mockery. But he was gone. He didn't hear them. If he had heard them he might have laughed. Did they think they could touch him with mockery? Hell, compared to his family these guys were saps.
No one mentioned an arrest, his rights; they merely took him. Took him to some hospital, some shrink, some tests, some questions, somewhere.
“You're the worst case we've seen.... Dope heads generally have low self-esteem....” That phrase caught his attention. He laughed. He laughed as people do who have lived in Hell and some how escaped. A laugh so dark they backed away.
Until the interrogation. “Users?? Buyers?? Sellers?? Informants???”
They were mere gnats to him, but time grated on. He watched his pale skin grating away, piling up on the floor. It became a huge pile until his breath stirred it about the interrogator's gaze. Suddenly he felt free. His skin gone, adrift. He heard an angelic voice, "Use them. Use them to escape."
He felt giddy." Okay. ... Okay.... I'll tell. But let's trade. I'll give you a name in exchange for place on the Southeast coast.
"No prison time" is all we can offer.
"South East Coastline".
"No prison time."
“He'll kill me.”
"Not in prison."
A trial date was set in the County Seat. He arrived on time with lawyer in tow. The Judge made his entrance. All rose except the DA- a no show. They waited. And waited.
"Clerk give Jennings a call and see what's holding him up."
"Jennings? He ain't the DA no more. He was appointed State's Rep when Kopple died."
"Christ, you're right. Well, who's the DA now?”
Eyes shifted from one set of shrugging shoulders to another. “No one?”
The trial was rescheduled until a new DA was appointed.
The pick-up load of Federal exhibits and evidence never came to bear. The case never went to trial. A first time offender, and a co-operative one at that. Not a known pusher, just a recreational recluse with a green thumb. Off with a fine, some community service, and probation.
He was a new man. Everyone noticed it. Friendlier to everyone, and he called his mother more. He was clean and happy about it. He talked about the Southeast coastline constantly. “Gotta get to where the NASCAR races are”, he'd say. “Love that sound thundering in my chest”. He never managed the money to go.
A local dealer had gone to prison for two years.
About a month after his release there was a fire. a small house trailer on the outskirts of town. The local boys drove out. Volunteer fire fighters shook their heads. Was anyone inside? A shiny car in the drive had melted like chocolate in a plastic bag. Inside they did find a body- of sorts: Some teeth remained, some DNA, some carbon monoxide remained in the blood, some smoke remained in the lungs, and a rifle barrel remained on his chest.
The FBI was never notified. The State Police came onto the scene, but were politely and repeatedly told to leave, "You've no jurisdiction here." The local boys collected the evidence, asked the local contacts who knows what.
The case remains open. Was it a crime of murder or suicide? It remains a puzzle that only the local boys can properly imagine or determine who set the fire, who pulled the trigger, on the outskirts of a small town where secrets are as rare as compliments and rumors as rampant as boredom.
From his grave, my brother still nourishes a secret.
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