Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 6)

-    Cigarette Smoke    -

Mel Jackson counted out sixty-five dollars, all in brand new, crisp bills to the couple standing on the other side of the counter, and then closed the register drawer. The young couple – probably no more than nineteen or twenty years old – had just pawned two wedding bands and a diamond ring. It was a cheap diamond but the gold itself was enough to bring Mel a tidy profit should they not find the means to make good on their loan. Mel’s best guess was that they were having a rough go at starting a family too early in life – with one or maybe even two kids back at home being watched by a mother or little sister or brother. Now they had just parted with the last bit of anything of value that they owned between them in a last-ditch attempt at making some sort of ends meet. As the guy stuffed the cash in his back pocket, they slowly walked out the door and past the rack of pawned mountain bikes and girls’ frame 10-speeds that nobody wants. Mel had just the slightest twinge of a caring feeling start to form in lowest sub-levels of his heart – but then quickly (we’re talking nanoseconds quickly) snapped back to his reality by replacing those feelings with thoughts of the four- or five-hundred bucks he’ll be able to sell those rings for in thirty days when those kids don’t show back up.

But Mel had other things on his mind at that particular point in time. He needed to get back to his friend in the back room – his friend that had gotten himself into a gigantic heap of trouble. Of course, Mel realized that he was that same gigantic heap of trouble also – maybe not quite as deep into the heap but definitely to a point that fell somewhere between his shoulders and chin.  He knew that the best plan of action at this point was for his friend to turn himself in to the police. Sure, Mel knew that he’d be implicated since the gun was from his shop but he would just have to find a way to deal with it. After all, the whole thing was just an accident. This was Mel’s planned advice to his friend as he walked to the back room but – upon opening the door he discovered that his young friend was nowhere to be found. He took a deep breath. Mel felt the heap get a good ten feet taller.

Back at the police station, Detectives Bass and Salamander were studying the contents of the newly discovered bike bag. Jimmy was at one end of the desk and Dolores stood at the other.  Sal wrote in his notebook as Arnold vocally itemized the contents of the bag: packet of cookies, sunglasses, twelve business cards (JP Bugtussle – phone number – email address), spiral notepad (blank – just like the rest), and a ballpoint pen. Out of a routine habit, Arnold took the pen and scribbled on the desk blotter. He added, “Blue ink ballpoint pen.” Sal duly noted it as such.

Sal also duly noted that his partner and Dolores were constantly making eye contact with each other – little looks that sort of lingered longer than normal. He also noted that their casual touching was starting to be a little more obvious.  Sal was a detective. He was paid to notice things. Arnold had been single for nearly ten years – and hadn’t been on a date in probably nine. Dolores was a good looking woman – about the same age as Arnold.  It’s obvious that they were attracted to each other. In Detective Mode, Sal would call those things “the facts.” Then he silently chuckled to himself, as he saw them standing next to each other, hands obviously touching out of sight beneath the top of the desk, and he thought, “Arnold can’t stand cigarette smoke.”

-( 1997 )----------

“Clevenger Skate and Ball Bearing, this is Sherry.”

“Hello Miss Castle. This is JP. Is Nathan in?”

“I’m sorry Mr Bugtussle. Nathan is out of town until Thursday. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Oh, there were just a couple of issues that my lawyers brought to my attention regarding the sale. I wanted to discuss them with Nathan but it can wait a few days if need be.”

“Hopefully it’s nothing too serious that will jeopardize the deal. We’re all real excited about it here.”

“It just some minor details but something that needs to be addressed— Miss Castle, not meaning to change the subject too drastically, but— do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Why no, Mr Bugtussle. What is it?"

"Do you happen to know where I could find a good witch doctor?"



(Back: Part 5  -  Shredded Styrofoam Cups)

(Next: Part 7  -  Porch Steps)

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 5)

-    Shredded Styrofoam Cups    -

Jimmy had worked at the Uptown Coffee Shop since his sophomore year of high school. He started out being the custodian more than anything else. Gradually they let him start working behind the counter – at first just making coffee and eventually, after nearly a full year, actually waiting on customers also. It was only then that they hired another flunky to take care the cruddy cleanup work – Lewis – who could really care less if he had a job or not but was just doing this because his Ol' Man said it was “either get a job or hit the road.” Lewis fully intended to hit the road as soon as he had the cash to do so – but since no one was just walking up to him with endless offers of free money, the Ol’ Man gets to win. Meanwhile, Lewis gets to clean the floors and pick up trash and mow the grass and trim the hedges and do whatever other disgusting job they can think of at the Uptown Coffee Shop.

Now, Jimmy was a good employee and he took pride in his work. It really bugged him to no end to see the sloppy work ethic that Lewis possessed – especially when it came to the outside of the shop. Half the time Lewis didn’t even bother to pick up the trash before he mowed – thus creating an even bigger mess of shredded trash – which he pretty much ignored also. Even though the coffee shop was currently closed indefinitely, Jimmy and Lewis came in for a couple of hours to tidy up the place and do the yard work. And, just like every other time after Lewis had mowed the grass, Jimmy couldn’t stand it and went out to do a little "touch up" work in order to bring the appearance up to his own standards. Apparently Lewis had run over half a dozen Styrofoam cups right next to the hedges growing along the sidewalk near the street. It almost looked as if someone had flocked them with fake snow as part of some Christmas decorations four months too early. As Jimmy was raking the pieces of shredded Styrofoam out from under the hedge, he loosened an object that wasn’t the normal, run-of-the-mill sort of trash. It was a little black bag. He reached down and picked it up. It was the kind of bag that goes on a bicycle, either on or right behind the handlebars. He opened it up. Inside there was a packet of cookies, a pair of sunglasses, a ball point pen, a small spiral notepad, and a handful of business cards. Jimmy’s eyes widened as he read the name - the first time to himself and then he repeated it out loud - “J. P. Bugtussle!” He immediately ran inside to call the police.

At the same time that Jimmy was calling the police, down in the basement at Baroovra Memorial, the coroner was placing the sheet back over J.P.’s head. Dolores was making a valiant, but failing effort to hold back the tears. Just then, Detectives Arnold Bass and Herman “Sal” Salamander came through the double doors into the morgue. They introduced themselves to Dolores and then the coroner confirmed that she had made a positive I.D. of the body. At that moment Dolores lost it. She collapsed to the floor. Detective Bass just barely was able to catch her head before it made contact with the concussion-inducing concrete floor. He picked her up and carried her outside into the hallway.

-( 1997 )----------

“Clevenger Skate and Ball Bearing,” greeted the voice on the telephone, “this is Sherry.”

“Hi Sherry, my name is J.P. Bugtussle,” came the reply on the other end. “I’m calling from Ft Worth, Texas and I’m interested in buying your factory. Is it still for sale?”

“Why, yes, it most certainly is. Would you like me to connect you with Mr Clevenger?”

“Yes ma’am, if you don’t mind. What did you say your name was again?”

“Sherry. Sherry Castle.”

“Nice talking to you Mrs Castle."

“It’s Miss.”

“Well alright Miss Sherry Castle – I reckon we’ll be talking again soon.”

“Hold on Mr Bugtussle. I’ll tell Mr Clevenger that you’re on the line.”

Sherry put Mr Bugtussle on hold and then buzzed Nathan to let him know that he had a prospective buyer on line one. Nathan Clevenger Junior had decided it was time to retire. He had owned the place ever since Nathan Sr passed away at the young age of 53 back in 1962 – thirty-five years ago. His own son, Edithion (God how Nathan hates that name! But, anything to keep his wife, and his mother-in-law, Edith, happy.  For years Nathan got away with having everyone call his son Ed. But when Ed got to high school, he thought it would be cool to go by his real name so, ever since then, he’s forced people to call him by his given name - Edithion. Nathan absolutely hates it!) - anyway, Edithion has no desire, nor the brains for that matter, to own the company. He doesn’t do too badly in keeping the shop moving along on schedule but that’s about the extent of his capabilities. So now Nathan’s plan is to find a buyer who will keep the shop intact and retain the current staff. At least that’s what Sherry and the rest of the employees are hoping for.

------------------------------

After Dolores had passed out, Arnold carried her out into the hallway and sat her down in one of the chairs that lined the wall. He knelt down beside her to steady her and then sent Sal off to get some water or coffee. After about five minutes, Dolores began trying to open her eyes - slowly at first, and then rapidly blinking a few times to try and identify the blurry figure in front of her. For a few moments, the person looked exactly like the bluish image on the cover of Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits album - the first greatest hits album - minus the lettering of course. After a few more moments, as she was getting closer to regaining consciousness and a little bit clearer eyesight, Dolores realized that it was Detective Bass who was coming into focus in front of her.

As Dolores worked at becoming fully conscious, Sal cam walking down the hall with two bottles of water, one tucked in each of the front pockets of his pants, a large insulated paper cup of coffee from the cafeteria vending machine in one hand and a wad of moist paper towels in the other. She glanced up at Sal and then back toward Arnold. She started to speak - but the words weren't coming out. Arnold patted her forehead with the moist towels he took from Sal and told her to take it easy a few minutes longer - have a drink of water - be patient - don't rush it. He held onto her hand . Suddenly Arnold was clearly in focus. Dolores was starting to feel much better. Her hand felt comfortable in his.

At that moment, Arnold's cell phone started ringing.




(Back: Part 4.5  -  Intermission - Poetic Interlude)

(Next: Part 6  -  Cigarette Smoke)

Bugtussle's Bike Bags (Part 4.5)

-    Intermission (Poetic Interlude)    -

My Dearest Wishing to Belong to Another, Edithion:

Mr Bass asks, “Isn’t it customary to excuse oneself before trying anything as absurd as to what you have suggested?”

“But I thought,” replies Mrs B, “that you would see that I can’t go on living with this cursed condition hovering over us.”

“Impatience. 

Immanent. 

Immateriall
Immovable. 

Immense. 

Immeasurable. 

Immodest. 

Imminimms.”

“Don’t talk to me like that – it makes no sense. You’re just blathering off words that start with ‘IM’ as far as I can tell and it has nothing to do with our relationship. You might as well hang up a sign that says: Closed IMdefinitely."

“Don’t try to belittle my felicity. Don’t nullify this electricity. The Federal District is full of Morons who cross the eye and dot the tea.”

(Play that saxophone)

The Rook chimes in, “I’d like to climb up inside your soul and ransack to my heart’s content or maybe take you on a trip to Louisiana. I’ve got no leeway – got no moderator – no expectancy – I’m spent. I’d like to amble but I’m suffering from disamblease.”

“Your observation of my obscurity is more than clear to me. It’s one of the things I live for.”

Yours without the normal feelings of regret,

Alphonse (Lost While Cycling Across Madagascar) Baroovra



(Back: Part 4  -  Sherry)

(Next: Part 5  -  Shredded Styrofoam Cups)

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 4)

  

-    Sherry    -

  

The terminating endpoint of Interstate 20 lies about 75 miles east of Columbia, South Carolina - right where Interstate 95 skirts the northwestern edge of Florence. About fifteen miles south of there, on Highway 52, is the peaceful little town of Coward – population 600 or so. Approximately twenty percent of the population of Coward works at Clevenger’s Skate and Ball Bearing – down off of Friendfield Road just across the railroad tracks. It used to be just Clevenger’s Ball Bearing until Nathan Clevenger married Kate Barfield – whose daddy, Howdy Barfield, owned Kate’s Skate-O-Rama (named after his favorite daughter, naturally) on the north end of town. A year or two after Kate and Nathan were married, Howdy came to them with the idea of expanding the ball bearing factory. This was in 1939, a couple of years after the Roller Skating Rink Operators Association (RSROA) was formed and Howdy had the insight to know that roller skating had no place to go but up. He convinced Nathan that they should start manufacturing roller skates in addition to ball bearings. So they did. Needless to say, the business boomed. In addition, as far as Sherry Castle is concerned, the business is still booming and going as strong as ever today.

Sherry is the current office manager for Clevenger’s Skate and Ball Bearing. She’s a pleasant woman - somewhat tallish and slender, with long, blonde hair on top of a good head for business.  Nathan’s grandson, Edithion (named after his grandmother), makes sure that everything out in the shop runs smoothly – but it is Sherry who has a handle on everything in the front office - except maybe for today. Today Sherry seems to be in a trance – just staring at her computer screen.  Every morning, when Sherry comes to work, she gets a pot of coffee going in the break room then checks the glue trap wedged between the fridge and the wall to see if any unwanted visitors had been nabbed overnight. Next she heads into her office to read the news on the internet while she waits for the coffee to be ready and for the rest of the office staff to show up. The headline that stopped her dead in her tracks this morning: J.P. Bugtussle Shot Dead!

Sherry sat there, just staring at the computer monitor. Her senses numb. Her mind started to wander – wander back to a time nearly fifteen years ago…

---------------

Meanwhile, in an overly chilly room down in the basement of the Alphonse Baroovra Memorial Hospital, Dolores Bugtussle prepared herself to identify the body laying under the sheet on the gurney. It had been eight years since she had last actually seen her son – although he called her at least twice a week on the phone and they would talk for hours. No one would have ever guessed that they lived in the same town – eighteen point seven miles apart.  It wasn't an estranged relationship – it was just strange – as had been so many things about J.P. Bugtussle's life – especially those thirty-seven beginning years of his life. As Dolores stood there, nervously staring, waiting, so many of those phone conversations with her son flashed through her head – primarily the ones over the last year or so – after his change. Those latter conversations were full of life and happiness and joy and – downright fun. Tales of all the interesting people he had met and helped while riding his bicycle around the country. Not the tedious, monotonous, hum-drum, callous business-like conversations that she dutifully listened to in times prior.

The coroner pulled the sheet back to expose J.P.’s head and chest. Dolores looked, quickly turned her head away, and then slowly returned her gaze to her son. She cupped her hand to her mouth. She nodded her head, acknowledging that this was indeed her son. Then, a puzzled look came across her face – her brow clenched tight over her eyes. She focused on some sort of a – for lack of a better word - a port. A port about two inches in diameter surgically implanted in his chest directly above his heart.

“Yes,” replied the coroner to her wordless question, “we are a little puzzled about that ourselves.”



(Back: Part 3  -  Mel and the Young Man)

(Next: Part 4.5  -  Intermission - Poetic Interlude)

Bugtussle's Bike Bags (part 3)

-    Mel and the Young Man    -

Jackson’s Pawn and Jewelry sits at the corner of Peach Street and Bishops Lane. When the building was first built back in the mid-1910’s, it was the local, neighborhood grocery store - owned by Fanny Gilbert - who had moved into town with her two young children after her husband had gone off to war. She actually kind of lucked into the deal at the time even though she never really had any grocery store experience, let alone actually owning or managing one. But anyway, she gave it a go and both of her children helped her run it when they got older. Fanny passed away in the early 70’s but they had sold the store back around ’55 or so. It had stayed a grocery store for about another five years but then was turned into a women’s clothing store for a couple of years - Mabel’s or Martha’s Dress Shop - or maybe it was Mavis' Dress Shop. Whatever it was called, afterwards it sat empty for quite a while. A couple of odds and ends type businesses were in there off and on but none ever took hold - that is until Jerry Ray Jackson bought the place and opened up a pawn shop right before the turn of the new millennium.

On this particular day, in the back room of Jackson’s Pawn, a young man, shaking and practically in tears was confiding to Mel Jackson, Jerry Ray’s son, the current manager of the shop.  Seems that the young man (young, as in somewhere in his early 20’s) was a good friend of Mel’s and had come to him a couple of weeks earlier to buy a pistol. He wasn’t really sure as to what kind he wanted so Mel had told him that he’d let him borrow a few guns, one at a time, and try them out over the next several days to see which one he liked best. Once he had decided on a particular model, they would settle up. Let’s just say it was not the smartest move that Mel could have ever made in the situation. Let’s also just say that the young man wasn’t the smartest or most coordinated being to ever walk the face of the earth - or the luckiest. Well, maybe he was the tiniest bit lucky in that, just prior to leaving the store earlier in the day, he took the gun out of the waist of his pants where he had originally stuck it, and stuffed it into the outer pocket of his backpack. Unlucky in the sense that the safety wasn’t on. Unlucky in the sense that he didn’t always pay attention to where he walked. Unlucky in the sense that he didn’t see the broken grating at the edge of the curb. Unlucky in the sense that when he stepped off the curb, twisted his ankle on the grating, fell sideways to the sidewalk and landed on the backpack, heard a pop louder than any noise a backpack should have even made when hitting the ground, and actually felt the breeze of a projectile as it whizzed past his shoulder (well, okay, that might be pushing it just a little), he still hadn't grasped the reality of what had just happened. But oddly enough, at that exact same moment - some guy on a bicycle across the street slumped over his handlebars and then fell to the road.

Meanwhile still, back at the police station, Detectives Bass and Salamander were staring at four piles on the squad room table that made up the contents of J.P. Bugtussle's bike bags. One stack consisted of enough shorts, shirts, and underwear to last about a week without having to do laundry. The second stack consisted of half a dozen paperback books, a few road maps, and a couple of notepads with absolutely nothing written in them. The third stack was more cash – exactly $20,500 in bundles of hundred dollar bills. And the fourth stack - the one most puzzling no matter how they looked at it – eight little matching wooden boxes about four inches by three inches by three inches – each one containing a  glass eye.



(Back: Part 2  -  Dolores)

(Next: Part 4  -  Sherry)



 

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 2)

-   Dolores   -

It was truly amazing how many people were outraged at the tragedy that befell J.P. Bugtussle. For someone who had basically lived a lifetime as a recluse – with just a smidgen of blossoming towards caring about his fellow man (and woman) in the last few months/days/moments of that life – his death really seemed to have left an impact in nearly every part of the world. Newspapers everywhere were emblazoned with front page headlines documenting the horrific incident. The assassin quickly rose to the Number One spot on the FBI's Most Wanted List - even though no one had a clue as to who this person was.  The flags at every bank and roller skating rink were flown at half-staff. The coffee shop where J.P. had been having breakfast the last few weeks of his life had a sign on their front door: CLOSED INDEFINITELY. Suffice it to say, the entire world was in a state of mourning.

J.P. Bugtussle’s body was tucked neatly away in the morgue while the authorities investigated the case. J.P.'s mother, Dolores Bugtussle, had been visited by two officers from the police department the morning after her son had been killed. They had offered to take her to the morgue so she could officially identify the body of her son. Dolores declined the ride and told them that she would drive up in a few minutes on her own. The officers asked her if she'd like them to stay awhile - make sure she was okay. She assured them that she would be fine. She just needed a little time to put it all together in her head. 

Dolores watched from the front screen door while the police car pulled away from the curb, then she turned and walked back toward the kitchen. She filled a watering can at the sink then made the rounds throughout the house, visiting all of the potted plants to make sure that they were all adequately nourished. She checked the food level in the parakeet cage hanging by the breakfast room window and determined that it was okay for the time being. She picked up the plate and coffee cup from the kitchen table and set them in the sink. She turned on the switch to the garbage disposal and watched trance-like as it swallowed the two strips of bacon, scrambled eggs and a half-eaten piece of toast that had  all gone cold while her morning had been interrupted by the police officers. She took the dish towel from the refrigerator door handle, wiped the trail of a tear that had begun flowing down her cheek, and then headed down the hall to her bedroom to change clothes.

A few minutes later, Dolores pulled her front door shut, checked to make sure it was locked, walked to the end of her porch, down the steps and got in her car. Sitting behind the wheel, she turned the key in the ignition, rolled down the driver's side window, lit a cigarette then backed out of her driveway. She swung much wider than she normally would have – just barely missing nearly taking out the neighbor’s mailbox – put her car in drive and headed south on Elm Street toward uptown.

When Dolores got to 15^th Street, she turned right. She made a mental note of the sale items advertised in the windows of the grocery store. She’ll need to stop by there on her way back home. About two-and-a-half miles later, she turned left on Knob Hill Drive followed by another left on 14^th Street. At the point where 14^th dead-ended into Lanark Drive, she pulled into the drive at the back of the hospital and parked next to the canopy by the doors. She opened the car door as she took one last drag on her cigarette. As she inhaled, the hot August air mixed with the smoke and nicotine and she felt her lungs ignite with fire. She thought to herself, “Wonder if I should switch to menthol?” Crushing the cigarette butt to the pavement, she walked through the rear entrance and pressed the button to the basement elevator.

Meanwhile, back at the police station, a couple of detectives were sorting through the items in J.P.’s possession when he was killed. His wallet was a basic kind of wallet that one could pick up at any department store – and not even real leather at that. It contained an ID card (no driver’s license), a Social Security card (NOT laminated as clearly instructed in fine type on the card), a photo of his mother, and $2,100.00 in hundred dollar bills – along with a ten and three ones. Tucked in one of the slots where one would normally put credit cards was a toothpick – used – one end used so much that it was pretty much useless any more as a toothpick. From his pants pocket they retrieved a ring with three keys on it, some change, and a small notepad – with nothing written on it. Someone had said he had been wearing some sun glasses, but they were nowhere to be found.

Then the detectives started going through J.P.’s bike bags…



(Back: Part 1  -  J.P.)

(Next: Part 3  -  Mel and the Young Man)

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 1)

-   J.P.   -

People say, to do well in life, one must be in constant contact with other well-to-do people – to learn the stepping stones to success, so to speak. J.P. Bugtussle didn’t think so. He started life as a child – which a lot of us do. But he was a different kind of child – which most of us are. So what was it exactly that made J.P. Bugtussle so different?

When Janiculum Peropavlovsk Bugtussle (See why everyone called him J.P.?) was eight years old, he began his career. He practiced hard at the art of conceit, deceit, and stinginess – majoring in egotism. His teacher was so proud of him that at one point he burned one of J.P.’s eyes out in order to give him a “gimmick” later in life. By the time J.P. was thirty-five, he was well on his way to millions. His tall, skinny body served as a standard by which he stacked all of his cash – right down to his quarter, dimes, nickels, and yes, even his pennies. Although he didn’t believe in banks, he had bought a total of 132 of them by the time he was thirty-six. But oddly enough, he kept all of his money hidden at home – with a good healthy amount of it stacked in the panniers of a bicycle that he had never ridden. In addition to his bank purchases, he had made several other real estate acquisitions – including a roller skate and ball bearing manufacturing plant in Coward, South Carolina. He was a bit eccentric – to say the very least.

By the time J.P. was thirty-seven, he had met only a total of three people – his mother, his teacher and a famous folk singer who was the son of some other famous folk singer. Due to this little fact, it was obvious that J.P. had never married – he figured it would only lead to financial problems. But, in fact, it only led to worse problems. Since he didn’t go out into public, he didn’t have a wife to pick out and buy clothes for him. He didn’t have a wife to be his companion when nobody else would have anything to do with him on a personal level. Obviously, he was lonely.

One day, out of the clear blue, he jumped on his touring bicycle and went out into the world to make friends. Right away he was nice and kind and friendly to everyone he met. He started giving huge amounts of money to charity. He was like a new man and he loved the new life that he had found. One morning, as J.P. Bugtussle was riding his bicycle to his favorite coffee shop for breakfast, someone shot and killed him. 



(Table of Contents)

(Next:  Part 2  -  Dolores)