CHARACTERFARM

He started out as a regular kid, but then he became a wiseguy.  No one knew exactly why.  Maybe it was because he was a little short.  Maybe it was the bright red hair and the freckles.

Some of the older troublemakers in high school took him under their wing as a sort of wiseguy mascot.  So even though he was younger than we were, he was cruising around in fine style, night after night, while we were walking, riding our bikes, or waiting for rides from someone's father or older sister.

Ken was wise to everyone and no one could do a thing about it, protected as he was by his troublemaker friends.

One night, while cruising around, Ken wised off to the wrong person.  The guy driving Ken had swerved sharply, cutting off the driver in the next lane.  The driver, later identified as a steelworker on his way home from the second shift, blew his horn.  This was the signal for Ken to lean out of the passenger window, give the cutoff driver the finger, and laugh at him.

The driver didn't find this funny.  He followed the car. Ken's group pulled into the back of a parking lot of a local diner; the aggrieved driver followed.  Ken jumped out of his car, determined to insult the driver a few times before his friends got out to back him up. 

As Ken was mouthing off, the driver grabbed him, dragged him over to the edge of the parking lot, and threw him over a small retaining wall down an embankment towards a slow moving creek, all before Ken's friends had a chance to react.

As luck would have it, Ken hit his head on the way down.  By the time his friends had scrambled down, he was unconscious.  They called for an ambulance, but it was too late.  Ken was dead. Massive trauma, bleeding, etc.

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F called me the next morning and filled me in.

"I'm glad he's dead," F said.  "He was nothing but trouble."

"He gave you trouble?" I asked.  "I didn't think you even knew him."

"Listen to this," F said.  "That little creep claimed I stole his gym bag.  The school even called my house.  I was supposed to go to a meeting about it Monday morning." 

F started laughing so hard that he could barely speak.

"I guess that meeting's cancelled," he said.

"Did you?" I asked.

"Did I what?" F said.

"Did you steal the gym bag?"

"Of course," said F.  "I never liked that wise little fucker.  I took it even though I already had one.  I just did it to fuck with him. That'll teach that wise bastard."

 
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Coda:  The steelworker had witnesses.  They'd seen him get cut off.  They'd seen the passenger, then victim, make threatening gestures.  They'd seen it was four against one.  So, the original charge of murder was reduced to some sort negligent manslaughter.

I think the steelworker eventually had to pay a small fine and promise not to kill any more wiseguys.

There was some talk of retribution from Ken's friends, but nothing ever came of it.       

  

              
      

I was at my first Little League practice. As we practiced, a boy walked around around and around the outside of the field. He kept his legs stiff (a modified goose-step I would call it now, though I didn't know the term at the time) and his arms locked at the elbow. He walked slowly and deliberately and pumped each arm in synchronicity with the opposite leg.

"Who's that?" I asked a teammate.

"That's John's little brother," he said, pointing to the third baseman. "His name is Robert. They call him Robert the Robot."

I didn't have to ask why.

All season, at every practice and game, Robert patrolled.

The next year Robert was old enough to be on the team. When he batted, he held the bat as he must have envisioned a robot would. It was next to impossible for him to swing. He either struck out or walked every time he came to bat. When he walked, he robot walked to first base. When he struck out, he robot walked back to the bench. It was all the same to him.

In the beginning of the year Robert played right field. Any ball hit his way was an automatic home run. Finally, our coach moved him to second base. Robert still never fielded any balls, but with another fielder behind him the automatic home runs were avoided.

Robert only played Little League the one year.

The next year he was back on the other side of the fence where he belonged, robot walking to his heart's content.

The doorbell rang early one Saturday morning.

"Steve J," I said. "I haven't seen you in years. What brings you here?"

"Actually," said Steve, "I didn't know you lived here. I'm selling vacuums door to door and this is my new territory."

"Really," I said. "I didn't know people still did that."

"Did what?" Steve asked.

"Sold stuff door to door," I said.

"They do," said Steve.

"Well, I'm not in the market for a vacuum," I said. "But you're welcome to come in for a cup of coffee."

"Thanks," said Steve. "I will."

"So, what's new?" I asked Steve.

"Did you hear about Tom W?" Steve asked. "He killed himself, just last week. Blew his brains out with a shotgun."

"You don't say," I said. "Why would he do something like that?"

"Apparently, he had always wanted to be a rock star, and when he realized he would never be one, he couldn't take it."

"I didn't even know Tom was in a band," I said.

"He wasn't," said Steve. "He was a shipping clerk in a ceramics factory."

"Around here?" I asked. "I thought all of the factories had closed up."

"No," said Steve. "There's a few that are hanging on, down in the Polish section."

"We still have a Polish section?" I asked. "I had no idea. I guess I should get out more."

"The Polish people are very meticulous." Steve said. "They clean like crazy. It's called House Proud. I did quite well over there last summer."

"So you really sell vacuums." I said. "At first I thought it must be some sort of scam, or a pyramid scheme."

"I'm just doing this till my band makes it," Steve said. "We're getting real popular. It's only a matter of time until we get signed."

"Sound good," I said. "More coffee?"

"No," said Steve. "I better get going. My district manager will be wondering what happened to me."

"Thanks for stopping by," I said. "And good luck to you, on both of your careers."

"Thanks for the coffee," Steve said.

"Anytime," I said.

I was a few weeks into a new job.
 
"Good morning," I said to a woman waiting for the elevator.  
 
"Ermph," she grunted at me.
 
"A woman just grunted at me," I said to a coworker when I got to my section.
 
"Don't take it personally," my coworker said.  "That's Cindy S.  She grunts at everybody."
 
"Why is that?" I asked.
 
"No one knows," my coworker said.  "But she's been grunting at people since I've been here, and probably long before that."
 
"Does she speak to the people in her section?" I asked.
 
"She's in Tech.  They don't have to speak to each other."
 
"How did she get hired?" I asked.  
 
"This is Civil Service, remember," my coworker said.  "She probably just took a test."
 
"But still,"  I said, "there's an interview.  Did she grunt at her interview and still get hired?  Did she speak normally and only starting grunting when she got the job?  And what about the probationary period?  Was she speaking or grunting then?"
 
"I couldn't say," my coworker said.  "That was long before my time.  Cindy has been working here almost twenty-five years.  She came right out of high school."
 
"Jumping Jesus," I said.  "Imagine that."  
 
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"Whatever happened to that grunting woman?" I asked one day.
 
"Where were you?"  my coworker said.  "It was a big deal. She fell down and broke her leg right outside the building. She was on her way in and she slipped on the ice."
 
"What ice?" I asked.  "It's sixty degrees outside."
 
"It happened last winter, during that bad storm."
 
"That was eight months ago," I said.  "It must have been quite a break." 
 
"I hear she's on permanent disability," my coworker said.
 
"Oh,"  I said. 
 
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"Did you see the weekly bulletin?" my coworker asked.  "That Cindy.  The Grunter. Remember her?  She died."
 
"Really," I said.  "Let me see."
 
"Hey," I said.  "The service is in Oceanville.  That's pretty far away."
 
"Well, that's where she lived," my coworker said.
 
"She lived in Oceanville?  And she worked here? That's almost a two hour drive each way," I said. "She drove that every day?"
 
"Her father drove her," my coworker said.  "She lived at home all her life.  Her father would drop her off every morning and pick her up at night. Cindy didn't drive."
 
"Jumping Jesus,"  I said.  "Imagine that."
 
 
 
 
     
  
  
 

Dr. F and I had been out driving around rather aimlessly one night when F had an idea.
 
"I know," he said.  "Let's go into town and pick up some hookers."
 
"I only have around seven dollars,"  I said. 
 
"We don't need any money," Dr. F said.
 
"We don't?" I asked.  "Why not?"
 
"My brother, Big F, he goes down there all the time. The ho's all love him. I'll just tell them I'm Big F's brother and they'll do us for nothing."
 
"Are you sure about this?" I asked.  "It doesn't sound quite right."
 
"Of course I'm sure," F said.  "Didn't I just tell you all the hookers love my brother?  He's a sick, demented animal, you know."
 
"I do know that," I said.  "I read about it in the newspaper."    
 
 
     

Connie C was my great grandfather.  I never met him; he died some time before I was born.  All I know of him comes from my mother.  Connie lived with her family when my she was a young girl.  What I do know is:
  
1. He was very strong. Once he lifted a car. And that was when cars were big heavy things, made of steel, not aluminum.
 
2. He started every morning with a half dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, and a big tumbler of whiskey.  One morning he came down for breakfast, went to get his bottle of whiskey and saw that it was empty.  He left the room, went to the bathroom, and came back with a big container of rubbing alcohol.  He poured himself a glassful.
 
The women of the house were shocked and dismayed.  My grandmother, Connie's daughter, asked him if were really going to drink it.  "That's poison," she said.
 
"Bah," said Connie.  "What's good for the outsides is good for the insides."  And he drained the glass. 
 
All heck broke loose. Everyone expected Connie to get sick and die.  One aunt was praying.  Another ran down the street to summon a doctor.  My mother was crying.    
 
But Connie was fine.  It turned out he was right about the insides and the outsides.
 
3.   He was never sick a day in his life.  In fact, he would probably still be alive today if he hadn't fallen and broken his hip, then taken a turn for the worse and died.  
 
4.  One time, all of the other adults were out of the house and Connie was charged with watching the grandchildren.  He taught them how to smoke a pipe and how to play pinochle.       
  
    

I went to school with Peter for a few years. He was passive and quiet. I don't remember him saying much of anything. Although he didn't have the energy to be bad himself, he always laughed a mirthless, soulless, laugh whenever anyone did something really terrible.

The teacher would walk down the aisle. Jackie S. would turn around in his desk and give her the finger behind her back. Peter would laugh: "Huh, hu, hu."

Thus casting his lot with the misbehavers, Peter got a reputation as a bad guy without ever doing anything.

He had straight black hair and very white skin. He slumped around in such a way that he appeared to have no bones between his shoulders and his feet. I actually began to believe this, that he had no bones, that he was stuffed, maybe with pudding.

Finally I could take it no more. We were milling around the classroon for some reason. Peter was staring out of the window. I walked up behind him and punched him in the back as hard as I could. My fist sunk right in, no resistance at all.

When I hit him, Peter said: "Upmh." He half turned to me and smiled. Then he went back to looking out the window. After that year Peter went to a different school. I never saw him again.

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Addendum

Some years ago I was walking into a restaurant with FW when I heard someone calling me from the bar. It was John C, a childhood friend. I hadn't seen him in almost twenty years.

"How have you been?" I asked. (I'd heard that he'd been in jail; I hoped he wouldn't fill me in on the details.)

"Great," John said. "I've been doing a lot of gambling. I fly out to Vegas almost every month."

"Great," I said.

"I usually go out there with Peter S. Do you know him?" John asked.

"Not really," I said.

"Well, Peter got electrocuted a few years ago," John said.

"You go to Vegas with a dead man?" I asked.

"He got electrocuted, but he didn't die," John said. "We work together. I was almost right there when it happened."

"I though you had to die," I said.

"You don't," John said.

"I never knew that," I said.

"Anyway, Peter's got it made now. He got a ton of money from the lawsuit and he doesn't have to work anymore, because he's all fucked up from being electrocuted. He springs for the suite and sometimes even the airfare. He doesn't care."

"That's great," I said.

"You should come out with us sometime," John said.

"Maybe I will," I said. "I'm going to go eat now, but keep in touch."