Chapter 14

During my forty two years of living, I have seen some amazing things. Because of my job and frequent singleness, I have seen most of the attractions this country has to offer.

It has gotten to the point that my “wow factor” is way up in the stratosphere.

One thing my father always taught me and I actually listened to was to never judge a book by the cover. By that, he meant to never downgrade or upgrade a person by how they look or act.

Some of the wealthiest people I know look and act like they don’t have a penny to their names. Likewise, some people who appear to be quite affluent are all show and no go.

That is one of the things so surprising about Squiggy. By looking at him, it would be easy to consider him as white trash. He does, after all, drive a monster truck that few respectable people would even consider riding in.

Squiggy also drinks beer and other alcoholic beverages like they are his main source of nutrition. He chews and dips tobacco, does not worry to much about bathing and dresses like a potential mother-in-law’s worst nightmare.

But Squiggy has always had a part of him that is a little unique. He tries to hide it, but it is like the gold dust scattered in the river. It’s there, just hard to find.

He proves this again as I can’t believe what Squiggy is showing me. It is a view that people would die for, or at least pay a lot of money for. We are on one of the ridges of Poteau Mountain. In the valley below, Langford is sitting in the middle, the lights of the town glimmering.

On the left is a house that appears to be almost finished. The outside is covered with rock aside from the large windows that overlook the valley and Langford.

Just below the house is a large pond with the lights of Langford just beyond. The moon’s reflection is bright in the pond.

“Who did this?” I ask.

“It’s mine,” Squiggy replies. He takes a drink and burps loudly.

“This is great. Who built it?”

“Me and Mule, mostly.”

I have a new respect for the two guys who have kidnapped me.

We walk over and look at the house. The view astounds me, along with the house. If this house was in Tulsa with this kind of view, people would pay more money than the Squigster would make in his lifetime.

“How did you do this?” I asked.

“We’ve been working on it for a while,” Mule mentioned.

“It’s always been my dream,” Squiggy said as he ran his hand over a rock. “I came across some money a few months back. Playin poker.”

“Did you guys actually build this?” I ask.

“Yep,” Squiggy replies. “We’ve drove ever nail and cut ever board. Only thing we didn’t do was the plumbin stuff. I had to call in a few favors.”

“We ain’t quite figgered out where to put the stuff,” Mule adds.

“What stuff?”

“Ya know, the pee and poop.”

“Won’t you put it in a septic tank?”

“I wanted to,” Squiggy said. “But this old hill’s made up of a lotta rocks. Right now, I guess we’s gonna have to send it over that there cliff.”

“It ain’t like there’s anybody below to splatter on,” Mule adds.

“I’ll just be glad I won’t have to go outside no more,” Squiggy mentions.

“You don’t have indoor plumbing at your house?” I foolishly ask.

“Well, not really. I been livin in the storm cellar since the bank repo'd my trailer. I had an outhouse set up, but Mule broke it. He must eat a lotta fibers, ya know? For the last year or so, I’ve had to go outside. It ain’t all that bad for the number one, but the second part kinda worries me.”

“Did you hear about Squiggy gittin bit by a snake last year while he was a doin his bidness?”

I should have changed the subject right there.

“Ouch,” I said. “On the rear?”

“He wishes,” Mule adds, then guffaws. “We was afraid it was one of them poisonous ones, like a copperhead. Squiggy wanted me to suck out the poison. We’s good friends and all, but not that good.”

“Now I’m a scared to go outside and make a deposit,” Squiggy stated.

“Make a deposit?”

“Yeah, you know,” he tried to think up the proper word, “to decaffinate. Now I just wait till I go to work or the bar.”

There was a large porch on the side overlooking the valley. I could picture Squiggy sitting in a rocking chair, Psycho by his side, watching the raw sewage spill out over the edge of the cliff.

I try to erase that thought.

“This is so nice,” I add.

“It’ll have workin plumbing,” Mule adds.

That’s always good to have in a new house.

“Will it have a shower?” I ask.

“Probably,” Squiggy said. “I’m gittin tired of washin off in the pond. Sometimes I smell worse after I get out.”

We finish the tour. Squiggy and Mule have done a remarkable job. While the outside is pretty much finished, the inside has a little work left. If they do half as good a job on the inside, this will be one of the nicer places around Langford.

“Does Mule get to live here?” I ask.

“We ain’t decided yet,” Mule said.

“Probably not,” Squiggy interjected. “If’n he sucked out the poison, maybe. But we ain’t that good a friends. Sides, don’t want none of the chicks to think we’s that ways.”

“Yeah, we’re just friends. I ain’t never been attracted to Squig’s bod.”

That was good to know. We were venturing out in an area where I had no interest in visiting.

“We better get going,” I suggested.

“Yeah, Psycho’s probably goin nuts by now,” Squiggy stated.

“I hope she ain’t bit nobody,” Mule added.

“I just hope she’s drunk by now.”

“She ain’t gonna be drunk. That dog can take her liquor.”

We walk back down the path toward the truck. I was amazed by their work, and that I had survived so far.

“Thanks for showing me this,” I said.

“Ain’t no problem,” Squiggy replied.

“If you don’t mind, just take me by my truck. I have to get on home.”

They stopped in their tracks and almost dropped their beer.

“Ya don’t wanna go to the bar with us?” Mule asked.

“I thought you was our buddy?” Squiggy looked hurt.

“I am, but I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“How come?” Mule asked.

“Yeah, why?” Squiggy pried.

“I got some things to do. Plus I need to check on my father.”

We continued walking, slower now. I could just picture their brains working overdrive.

“We gotta git Psycho first,” Squiggy insisted.

“Okay, but then I have to get back to my truck.”

We got back in the truck and flew down the dirt roads, hitting every bump and hole. I was amazed that Squiggy could drive so good while drunk, but then realized he had a lot of practice.

The Last Call was our destination. It is a bar on the edge of town, the only bar in and around the greater Langford municipal area. Most of the residents don’t care for it, neither do the police, who seem to visit the place several times a night to break up fights and arrest the drunks puking out in the parking lot.

I have been there once before. I lasted twenty minutes. Some redneck pulled a knife on some huge Indian over a pool game and I hit the road. The place does not seem to have changed since my previous visit, not that it is a surprise.

There is a large parking lot outside. Mostly gravel and dirt, no concrete or asphalt at The Last Call. Sometimes when it is really wet, about half the vehicles get stuck and have to get pulled out by a tow truck. The cops stake out the place hard and nail anybody who leaves and drives erratically.

The Last Call needs some serious work, I notice. The paint is peeling and some boards are coming loose. I notice the grass needs mowed and trimmed. There are two women screaming at each other just outside the front door. Some guy wearing a cowboy hat with his pants tucked in his boots is trying to be the peacekeeper.

He’s smaller than the two women and does not appear to be half as mean.

“Hold up,” Squiggy orders. “They’s gonna fight.”

“I gotta dollar on the blonde,” Mule responds.

“I’ll take that bet. I seen that black-haired chick fight last week. She cold-cocked this fat wench from Poteau.”

“I missed that one,” Mule adds with a touch of regret.

The little cowboy is pushed aside and the fight commences. They attack each other like wild animals, scratching, biting and clawing.

“Shouldn’t we call the cops?” I suggest.

They look at me like I’m crazy.

“Sometimes they lose their shirts,” Mule suggests.

A crowd quickly forms. Word must have gotten inside about the fight and the people flock outside like somebody yelled “Fire!” They start yelling support at the two women.

“Kick er butt, Sharona!” yells some guy standing next to me with the largest belly I have ever seen. It looks like a beach ball hanging over his pants. He’s a little short and I keep expecting his gut to bounce off the gravel and hit him in the face.

The blonde pulls out a big wad of hair and gets bit on the hand. The other girl almost loses a shirt and the crowd cheers louder, at least the guys. Some tall guy walks in front of Mule and gets thrown out of the way. He starts to get redneck, sees who flung him aside, then leaves.

We hear a siren and the crowd disperses like a bunch of cockroaches when the kitchen light comes on. The two women don’t notice, or care. Two cops approach them, see that it is women and stop.

Squiggy and Mule are standing in the parking lot, each packing a beer in both hands. The cops look at them for a second, see Mule staring back and decide not to pursue that.

“Boy, they sure don’t like each other,” the portly male cop says.

“Sisters are like that,” the tall cop with a big nose replies.

Backup arrives and the four cops try to break up the fight. It takes a little bit and the remaining crowd boos.

“They ruin everthing,” Mule says.

“Didn’t even wait for no clothes to come off,” Squiggy complains.

We walk inside the bar. I have one foot inside when my phone rings. I see that it is my mother calling. Something must be wrong with Dad, I decide.

“Hello,” I say.

“Are you in that bar?” Mom practically screams. “I already had two calls from people saying you were at that nasty bar.”

“Yeah, we just stopped here for a minute.”

“We? Who is the ‘we’ you're referring to? I hope you aren’t running around with that Squiggy.”

“Mom, I’m old enough to do what I want.”

“Yes, and you’re also old enough to have better sense than to be in that pit.”

Mom hangs up without saying goodbye. I notice Squiggy and Psycho having a touching reunion as the dog is trying to jump up in Squiggy’s arms. She must have rolled in something bad so Squiggy isn’t allowing it, which is a little surprising.

Psycho sees me and growls. I keep my distance while walking pass en route to the bathroom. There is a big bar area to the right as you enter. Tables are scattered throughout the place, surrounding a dancing area. There is some line dance going on. About half the people act like they know what is going on. The other half are too drunk or stupid to realize how dumb they look.

There is a large crowd tonight. Only about half the people seem to be drunk, but the night is young.

I make it to the men’s room and start doing my business when the phone rings again. I am standing at what appears to be a feeding trough converted into an open urinal. A cowboy next to me is making me nervous. I am not sure, but feel like he is trying to sneak a peek.

I manage to keep doing my business, turning a little away from the guy next to me and look at the phone. It’s my mother again and I let it ring.

“Your phone’s ringing,” my co-urinator says.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I like to try and hit the cigarette butts,” he adds.

My bladder is not completely emptied, but I must leave.

“Good,” I reply and start to leave.

“I got a good aim. Wanna watch me…?”

I am out the door before he gets a chance to finish. I find Mule and Squiggy and suggest they take me back to my truck.

“Can’t,” Mule says.

“How come?”

“Squiggy thinks that chick over there wants him.”

I know better, but look to see which woman Mule is referring to. There is a tall woman staring at us, the kind that never gets popular with the guys until the bar is about to close. She appears to have had a fight with the ugly stick and lost badly.

“The ugly one?” I ask.

“Naw, that one next to the dance floor.”

I look around and see her. The only problem is she isn’t looking at Squiggy, but me. She’s a short, chunky one, drinking a Bud and wearing what appears to be cheap rings on every finger except the wedding finger. She is well endowed and naturally wears a low-cut red shirt, revealing more cleavage than I thought was physically possible.

Her posterior is about the same size as her top, way too big. She has a rear only the drunks would admire. The blue jeans appear to be painted on, too tight to be worn any other way. She has on a pair of boots that look like they are about to explode at any second, too small for any foot to fit in.

The look on her face says “Fresh meat!” as she stares at me. She starts walking toward me and I turn and head toward Squiggy. This turns out to be another bad mistake. It smells like Psycho was squirted by a potent skunk.

“We gotta go,” I insist. Squiggy sees the chunky chick heading our way and shakes his head, his eyes never straying from her main attributes.

“Yeah, come to poppa,” Squiggy says in a low voice, eyeing her like a t-bone fresh off the grill.

The front door opens and I look in that direction. I was pretty sure before we had stayed too long. After seeing who was standing at the doorway, I am positive.

Chapter 15