Chapter 42

One thing I have never really cared for was going to meetings that seemed to drag on forever and nothing gets done.

In my experience, at least half the meetings I have covered or attended in my life were too long or held just to justify somebody’s job or importance.

I get bored fairly easily. I have never actually fallen asleep, but have been so bored that the only way to keep my eyes open was by drawing or scribbling. Occasionally, there is a blowup at a meeting and that makes it worthwhile when the people call each other idiots or worse.

Those are fun, as long as they don’t turn Jerry Springerish. I do not like having to dodge chairs. I have before, but do not enjoy it. You can get a serious knot on the old noggin from one of those.

The Langford School Board’s meeting that night was boring. Nothing exciting happened, just a bunch of people getting together to pay the school’s bills and conduct business.

The branch manager, the guy Squiggy called “Slick” was in charge of the meeting. He tried to keep it going at a fast pace, something I admired. There was a good crowd for such a boring meeting. Along with the school board members, the superintendent, the financial person and a secretary to take notes, several teachers and employees from the school were there.

Langford’s teachers were a lot different from when I went to school. Back then, most of them were the grandmother type. These teachers were around my age and a lot more modern.

The meeting only lasted just over thirty minutes, a record for school board meetings. I introduced myself to as many people possible, hoping that would spur them on to buy our little newspaper and purchase ads.

I actually sold two ads on my father’s memorial ad. Yeah, I should be ashamed, but the needing the money part weighed a lot heavier than the worry about profiting from my father’s death. It was just business, I tried to tell myself, but it still bothered me.

Mom and M.J. were coloring something on the dining room table when I got home. We talked for a little bit and I faked some interest in the coloring project, just enough to keep Mom from getting on to me. I slipped upstairs and went to work. I had brought my laptop home and spent the rest of the evening writing and laying out stories for what I consider the new and improved Langford Review.

Up to this point, The Langford Review was rather boring. Just a few pictures, mostly the kind brought in from Joe Schmo who had a family reunion and wanted to share this with all the other readers, like they really cared. I would have to continue to put pictures like this in, especially since Joe Schmo and his family would be more apt to buy that edition, but I really wanted to juice the paper up.

My plan was to put in more pictures and get as many names as possible in the paper, hoping each person and their family would be so excited that their name was in the paper that they would want to buy one. It was going to be a lot friendlier Langford Review. This violated all my journalistic principles, but I needed the money.

We did pretty well that first day. I milked over eight hundred dollars in cash and checks from people for ads, not to count the classifieds that were bought. That money was deposited with my new friends at the branch bank.

In between hitting on me, I had Nancy send out reminders to a lot of past-due accounts and I hoped some of that money would come trickling in. She was a good worker and very persistent, which I admired except when it came to trying to lure me over to her house.

Mom and M.J. had left me alone, but paid me a visit just before ten.

“It’s beddiebye time!” she announced. I always hated that term. Just say it’s time to go to bed. M.J. had just gotten out of a bath and was wearing pajamas that seemed to cover all his body other than his hands and head.

They appeared to be Tigger pajamas. He stood behind my mother, holding on to her leg and keeping a good eye on me to make sure I didn’t try any sneak attacks on him. His hair was combed to the side, the same way Mom always combed my hair.

“Can you give Michael a hug?” she asked the boy. It should have been “will” instead of “can”. Sure, he could give me a hug, but actually doing it was the question.

He shook his head, way too hard. Fine, don’t hug me. I’ve bathed today! I never bite except in self defense!

“Are you sure?” she asked.

This time, M.J. nodded with just as much emphasis.

“Okay, where do you want to sleep?”

M.J. looked at her with a questioning look. Like most boys, he had the look of not caring, just get him a pillow and a blanket and that would be fine.

“Do you want to sleep with Michael?” she dared to ask. What? Hold on one second, mother of mine! I didn’t need to worry. M.J. was completely against that idea.

“No way!” he practically screamed. Good, that’s how I felt about sleeping with him. I had never liked sharing a bed, at least to sleep, and was too used to spreading out.

“Do you want to sleep alone?” Mom questioned.

“Not weally.”

“Where do you want to sleep?”

“Wif you?”

That seemed to make Mom happy. I wondered if her snoring would bother him, but decided to let M.J. deal with that.

I actually slept well that night, the first time since returning to Langford. It was raining on Tuesday, which was appropriate since it was the day of my father’s funeral. The weather never seems to cooperate for funerals. It’s always raining, hot or cold. I can’t remember a funeral on a nice day.

Mom was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs at just after six. She started cooking breakfast and had bacon frying and biscuits cooking in no time. M.J. was sacked out on the couch. She had brought him into the family room after getting out of bed.

He looked so peaceful. I longed for that feeling, but knew that M.J. didn’t feel that way while he was awake, poor kid. Mom had the Tulsa newspaper on the table, waiting for me. There wasn’t any story about my firing!

I expected it to be front-page news. Not really, they always keep things like this under wraps. Newspaper people always want the dirt on everybody and everything else, but don’t like to share their own.

There wasn’t anything exciting going on. I skimmed the paper and ate more than I should. Mom kissed me as I walked out the door. M.J. continued to sleep.

Nancy was already at the office when I arrived. Her disco doo was riding high, I quickly noticed, and wondered when she would realize that was out of style. I was afraid the leg warmers and leotards would soon resurface.

She was happy, even though I had stood her up the night before. Nancy smiled and greeted me like we had not seen each other in years.

“Hello, Mister Hunt!” she said.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

She looked a little confused.

“What?”

“Excuse me?”

“How’s what going?”

“Uh, everything.” That was a mistake. Nancy told me pretty much everything that was going on in her life. I lost interest within the first minute, but acted like I was paying attention in the typical guy fashion by grunting or giving an “uh huh” every minute or so.

I started walking around, getting things organized. She followed me, telling me all about her family and all the exciting things that Nancy had been up to. Nancy went to the mall over the weekend! She bought a book on Martha Stewart, who apparently was an idol. She had only read the first chapter, but thought this was going to be one of her favorite books.

The book was apparently written in better times for Martha, back before she got an extended vacation in the slammer, so everything was good. Nancy told me her brother was getting a divorce! This deeply upset the family. Her grandmother was in the hospital for bedsores, something I did not need to know.

Nancy said a lot of other stuff, but it was deleted in my mind. She was a lot perkier than I was used to in the morning.

She mentioned something about missing me the previous night. I nodded, not wanting to enter that territory. Nancy finally got back to putting out the newspaper and other work. She had the irritating habit of asking me if I needed anything, almost every five minutes. It reminded me of my former wives, back before we were married. That always stopped right after we were married, unless they were trying to butter me up for something.

A little later, a lady walked in and stood just in front of the door. I looked up and saw Nancy was waiting on her. That was fine with me. I went back to work, heard them talking and happened to look back. The customer looked a little rough. She was about my age, but looked a lot older. Her face was already wrinkled and her hair was sprinkled with gray. The woman wore some strange shirt that had little balls dangling from it. She had on a pair of jean shorts that were frayed at the bottom. Underneath the shorts, it looked like her boxers were sticking out.

Nancy took care of the lady, who actually paid us some money then left. She walked over to me and handed me the cash.

“This is for your daddy’s ad,” she said, smiling cheerfully.

“Thank you,” I responded. “What was up with that woman?”

“What do you mean?” she looked suspicious. I should have known better.

“She had boxers hanging out from under her shorts.”

Nancy frowned for a few seconds.

“That was my mother.”

I felt about two-foot high the rest of the morning. Nancy told me not to worry about it, but I worried that had hurt her.

I was supposed to go visit Lydia Wallace at nine. She was the lady who came in the office yesterday, wanting me to do a story about her. I felt like this was going to be a waste of time, but her husband was opening a store and hopefully that would encourage them to spend money with their local newspaper.

Nancy reminded me of this twice, worried that I would forget. I waited until the last minute, trying to get in as much work as possible. We had several pages done, which was a relief. The front page was still a mess. But we had over 24 hours to get it done, even though some of that would be blown at my father’s funeral.

Lydia lived just outside town, an area that was attractive to most of the white people since the Mexicans seemed to only want to live in town. The house was a large brick home that told me they were either in over their heads, or possibly had money! I hoped they would share some of that money with me, which was sad, but I was desperate.

It stopped raining on the drive out to her house. I parked in the driveway and walked to the front door. There was a little weenie dog in the front yard, barking at me like I had come to rob the family and eat his dog food. I tried to soothe him, but when that didn’t work, I growled back at him, which sent him running off into the woods.

Lydia happened to see this. Great, now she’s going to think I was mean to her dog.

“I hate that dog,” she said. Lydia looked like she had been getting ready all morning. She was wearing her makeup, way too much in my opinion, and had her hair all fancied up. Her shirt was a white blouse that buttoned up in front. The slacks were tan and pleated. She wore a pair of high heels that looked like they cost more than I made in a week, back when I was still employed. “Come in.”

I was carrying my camera and a notebook to jot down Lydia’s comments and observations. This was a waste of time. I felt like a male prostitute, selling my time and services to get something in return. Not sexual, thank goodness, but the feeling was strong.

She showed me around the house. Her husband, Darrin, and their two daughters were in the family room, sitting on the couch and doing something with the television.

“This is Michael Hunt,” she said. Her husband turned around and shook hands.

“Who cares?” the oldest girl commented. She was about five. The other one was roughly three. They were dressed in their nightgowns and were extremely interested in what their father was doing. The youngest girl was running her fingers through her hair, making little twirls.

There was a loud noise from the television, like a gunshot.

“Good shot, Daddy!” the older daughter said. “Kill that stinkin German!”

Lydia looked like she wanted to bury her head in a pillow. I looked at the television and saw some guy point his rifle at some guy dressed like a German, zoom in and shoot. The bullet hit the Kraut in the head, causing a tinging sound from hitting the helmet. Some blood splattered out the far side of the guy’s head and he did some kind of cartwheel.

“Yeah, look at him flop!” she said. The girl had a controller like her father’s. She was hitting buttons like crazy, but nothing seemed to happen. “There’s another one! Let’s get him!”

The good guy snuck up a little closer, aimed and shot the German in the leg. Again, blood seemed to explode out his leg. This was not a kill shot, so he fell to the ground and started flopping.

“Shoot him!” the younger girl chirped in.

It was a head shot, pretty much right in the face. His face seemed to blow apart.

The girls started giggling, as did Darrin.

“We can go in the dining room,” Lydia suggested.

“Yeah, just a second,” I said. This was cool. I had never seen a game so authentic. “What is this?”

“X-box game,” the younger girl said.

“What’s the purpose?”

“Kill Germans!” the older girl said, looking at me like most people did Squiggy.

Aw, what a touching moment. A father and his two little girls killing people in a video game, I should be outraged! Offended, I say!

On the screen, he nailed another German. This time it’s a gut shot. You can hear the whop when the bullet hits.

“Nice shot!” I say. “Man, he’s bleeding like a stuck pig!”

“Yay, Daddy!” the younger girl said. “Shoot him again!”

He does, right in the helmet. Another ting. The German stops writhing.

Steam is practically coming out of Lydia’s head. I don’t think she is fond of this game, or how much the girls enjoy it. I believe she would be happier if the girls were playing with Barbie.

“The other controller doesn’t work,” she whispers. Apparently the girl doesn’t know that. She is hitting buttons like they’re going out of style.

Uh oh, it’s a tank. A German tank is coming toward the good guy. He scurries behind what is left of a building. I can’t get over how realistic this is. The tank sounds like it’s coming into the family room. The shooter just happens to find a hole in the rubble to escape from. This is almost better than a movie.

“We can go in here,” Lydia suggests.

I nod and follow her into the dining room. Every few seconds, we hear encouragement from the girls and then celebration as another nasty German is downed. Lydia shakes her head.

“Sorry about that,” she said. What? There’s nothing to be sorry about. That was one of the cooler things I have seen.

“Don’t worry about it.” I want to ask her how much all that cost, but knew she wouldn’t like it.

We talk for a good thirty minutes about her. We go outside to take some pictures. She flashes her fake smile and tries some different poses, always asking me which one is better. Lydia tries some glamour poses that fail badly.

“Should I unbutton my blouse?” she asks. Lydia already has two buttons open. I decide she has gone far enough.

“No, that’s fine,” I answer.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

I decide it’s time to quit taking pictures. This is going to test my creativity. Lydia’s life is not really worth documenting, but she was once a candidate for some beauty contest that I’ve never heard of. She also bragged about coaching cheerleading.

We bid our farewells and I head back to town. Nancy looks a little bored, until she sees me.

“Gosh, I was missing you!” she said. I was relieved that Nancy didn’t seem too upset about my questioning her mother’s strange clothing.

“Uh, okay. Anything going on?”

“It just came on the scanner that some old lady’s cat is stuck up in a tree on west third.”

In normal times, that would not generate any excitement. These were not normal times. A photo opportunity! I could just see the big picture across the front page, some brave fireman, who hopefully had a lot of relatives nearby, crawling down a ladder with a little furry kitten, safe in the fireman’s hands.

I rushed to the scene, even passing some old lady on one of our little roads. But by the time I got there, the firemen were going back to their jobs and lives.

“Where’s the cat?” I asked.

“Aw, it jumped out of the tree and a dog got it,” one of the firemen said.

“Pretty gross,” another added.

A woman was surrounded by neighbors and friends. She was bawling and throwing her arms about. Apparently seeing her cat killed by some dog was more than she could handle. I wondered if she would mind if I took a picture. What the heck, I thought, and snapped off a couple of pictures until they started staring at me.

“Why are you taking pictures?” one woman yelled. “Can’t she mourn her cat in peace?”

I waved and headed back to my truck. I realized that I had not gotten the crying woman’s name. One of the neighbors who had been comforting the woman was walking past. When I asked, she gave me the crying lady’s name. She even told me the cat’s name!

This was just too cool. I needed to find some other things to take pictures of. I needed some human interest stuff. You know, the kind of pictures that aren’t the least bit newsworthy but make people buy newspapers. I drove by the school and saw some kids playing. I took a couple of shots before noticing one of the little boys was picking his nose, and then closely inspected whatever it was he dug up.

I got the names from the teachers. I looked back over my pictures on the viewfinder and discovered there was a good one of the boy with his finger buried up his nose. His parents would be so proud to see that in the newspaper, along with the following caption: Joe Littleboy, the son of Mother and Father Littleboy, goes digging for gold during recess at the Langford Elementary School on Tuesday morning!

They would probably tar and feather me. I did get a good one of one of the teachers checking on some little girl who banged her knee.

Nancy brought us some large, greasy burgers for lunch. I could feel my cholesterol rising, not that I cared at that moment. The burger was too good.

I worked up to the last minute. Finally, it was time to go home, get dressed for the funeral and go bid my father goodbye.

Mom and M.J. were ready when I got there. She was a little flustered.

“Michael, you should have been here thirty minutes ago!” she said.

I ignored her and got dressed. All I had were slacks and a dress shirt and tie, no jacket, so that was my attire. We sat around and waited for the people from the funeral home. They showed up in their fancy white car and escorted us out to it. I tried to not notice the neighbors staring.

Mom and M.J. held hands as they walked out to the car, and after they got inside. As we pulled away, I glanced back and saw something. It took two glances to convince me that it was real.

“Stop the car!” I hollered. The funeral home director threw on the brakes, causing his assistant to hit his head on the dash. They turned and stared at me while my mother looked at me like I was crazy. M.J. scooted farther away. I didn’t care what they thought. We had to go back. This was much more important than a funeral, even if it was my father’s.

Chapter 43