[21] Roach Town
[21]
Detective Zone turned around zipping his pants up. The Constable stared at his crotch as he did this. Zone watched him as he did this. Gagger watched Zone watch the Constable watch Zone. It was weird standoff. Gagger thought for certain that Zone would say: "If you want an inspection, you will need warrant there, buddy." Instead he said: "Zippers, right? Sliced bread never had it this good." The Constable looked visibly confused. He was wondering what the hell was going on? Trying to figure out why any of this was happening to him. All he wanted to do was go back inside and get drunk off of cheap vodka. Instead he was dealing with these two maniacs with questionable motives. He said: "What?"
Zone said: "You know, sliced bread. Like from the saying." This made things worse.
The Constable said: "Hey, man, I don't know nothing about sliced bread." Zone kept messing with the guy.
He said: "Really? You a bagel guy or something?"
The Constable said: "Huh?" Gagger was suddenly very annoyed. He didn't want to be here. His epiphany about hating Vermont was making his bones ache. He just wanted to solve this mystery and get the fuck out of town. Or even not, he didn't really care if they solved the mystery at the moment. It wasn't their job anyway. They were basically just killing time until Captain Nylon sent for them again.
He said: "Zone! Leave him alone. He's half-cocked and wants us to leave, you are not making things better." Zone smiled his crooked vulture broken tooth smile. This interjection made Constable Bondo happy. Like Zone had been reprimanded. And that seemed like a victory to him.
Constable Bondo said: "Yeah, Zone, listen to your buddy here. He says wise things." Zone didn't listen to his wise buddy. He pressed on.
He said: "Who, this guy? He's about as wise as an owl wearing a turtle neck." This made Gagger turn his head away to hide unsolicited laughing. And the Constable, didn't realize that the more he pushed back the more Zone would mess with him.
He said: "That doesn't make any sense. I mean, maybe if the owl was wearing one of those neck brace things, that would make sense, but a turtle neck?"
Zone said: "Okay, a dickie then." The Constable Bondo still didn't get it.
He said: "No, the problem isn't that the owl is wearing a long sleeved shirt, the problem is that the owl can't turn it's head. That is what makes it unwise, right?"
Zone said: "Yeah, but the owl wearing a long sleeved shirt is also pretty unwise though. I mean, the bird has feathers, you know? It doesn't need to be wearing clothes. I mean, right? Plus the turtle neck would make it hard to turn it's neck. But I agree that a neck brace would be harder on the owl than the dickie, but the turtle neck would would mean not only could it not turn it's neck very good, it also couldn't fly around so good neither, right?" This broke the spell. The Constable finally understood Zone was messing with him. That, or he sobered up a little from being away from his vodka.
He said: "Oh, I see. You are doing a yuck on me. Real funny." He mumbled something to himself that neither detective could hear.
Zone said: "What's that?" The Constable understood he was beat. He didn't care. He wanted another drink. He decided the sooner he talked to these goons the sooner they would leave. He invited them into his house. He looked around the place making sure nothing illegal was out and about. The place was a mess. He had been on a weeks long bender at this point. Ignoring phone calls. Sleeping until noon. Drinking from the moment he woke up until the moment he went to bed. Or more like, until he passed out on his couch, too drunk to make it to bed, to drunk to get up to piss. The two detectives noticed the signs of an alcoholic. It hit a little too close to home. The difference between them and the Constable though was, Zone and Gagger had a purpose in life. As fraught as it was. They had jobs that they cared about and optimism, if only brief and fleeting, about their lives. About what the future held. This was not what the Constable had. He was alone and addicted to booze. He was the Constable for only one reason. The $5,000 dollars that the town gave him every year to do the job. That, and the few side jobs he did every year, like painting a house, or even private eye stuff that came around every now and again, when someone suspected their wife of cheating on them. Because it was always men, and it was always about that thing in particular, but that money, the 5 big ones, was the only money he made. Kind of. He also got a government check every month due to his "Disability." Which was a scam he had worked out all those years ago when he realized he wasn't cut out for working. When he stumbled upon a loophole in the structure that made the Vermont Liberalism vulnerable to people like the Constable. He had read something in the Rochester Herold that was offering help for people with mental disorders. He went to the public library and did some research. Found out how to act mentally unfit. Made use of the free therapy that was offered to the poorest in the community. And for a year straight he acted like someone suffering from schizophrenia. And it just so happened that his therapist, fresh out of college, looking to do good things for the poor, she bought his act hook, line and sinker. And after a year of acting, he ended up with a monthly check in the mail and just two mandatory visits from the Health Board each year. Which was a small price to pay for the money he received. The money wasn't much, but since he owned the house that he lived in. Having received it in his father's will when he died. And ever since being declared "Disabled" by the State. He didn't have to pay property taxes. He did all right. His income was nearly $1000 dollars every month. Half of which he spent on cheap vodka. The other half kind of just went out the window. Buying bondo to fix up his old car. Spray paints and such. His bubble-gum car.
But Constable Bondo. He was lonely. He didn't want to be lonely, but he was lonely. His entire life he had spent in Rochester, Vermont. There were two years after high school when he joined the Merchant Marines that were the best years of his life. But instead of sticking around after his two year term he decided to go back to Rochester, Vermont to maybe start a family and buy a farm. Maybe grow corn or raise goats, he wasn't sure. It didn't really matter. He was in high spirits. Seeing the country had inspired him to give back to his community. He was just barely 20 years old. He couldn't drink legally. Which was fine by him. He had had a rough upbringing. Both his parents were alcoholics. They were not kind to him. He had no siblings, so he suffered alone. It didn't matter. He took it all in stride. Or so he told himself. Coming back to town was great at first. He met a girl, fresh out of high school. They spent all their time together. He was a big guy around town. Having seen the world and whatever. He wasn't too worried about things. Then one day he went over to pick his beloved up from her parents house and they told him that she had left for the City with some greasy haired hippy named, Charley. Who, they insisted, was nothing but trouble and she would turn back up soon enough when she got her head screwed on right again. But she never turned back up. And instead of Constable Bondo taking this actuality with grace and good humor, he started to become confused about his life. Instead of being focused on his future, like he was when he left the Merchant Marines, he instead just bounced around the state. From town to town. Getting minimum wage jobs, saving enough money at them until he could move to another town. Then he would get another job. Work there for a month or two, and move on. This was kind of okay with him. He felt a little lost, but it didn't matter, he was still young.
But then, one day in the Fall of his 25th year, Constable Bondo met a girl from the college in Middlebury that ripped his heart out of his chest like it was crepe paper and wadded it into a humongous ball and shoved it right up his sensitive anus. He had never felt emotions the way that he had felt them with her. And instead of being honest with him, she started sleeping with his roommate, who was his best friend, and then, when he found out she had said: "We never agreed to be monogamous, man." His best friend roommate was standing there too. They were packing her car, getting ready to go on a road trip across America. The roommate had said: "Yeah, man, I don't understand why you are so upset. Everyone could tell we were doing it." And that was the breaking point for poor Constable Bondo. Every single emotion he ever had his entire life kind of just broke off from the back of his brain. He watched them drive away. The windows down. A song playing on the radio. He walked back into the apartment. Not knowing what to do. And there, like some phony after-school special stood a bottle of cheap vodka sitting on the counter. The two betrayers, in their hurry, had forgotten to take it with them. And as the child of an alcoholic, the Constable grabbed the thing and threw it against the wall. Leaving a huge dent in the drywall. But the bottle was plastic. So it did not burst. It just laid there on the bong water soaked carpet mocking him. Later that night he felt so horrible about himself, about how things ended with the love of his life and his best friend, that he forced himself to take a drink. "This would prove them!" He had said. An entire life, free from the booze. Never once tasting the stuff. Not even when hid dad had tried to force him to drink with him when he was drunk. The Constable must have been 12 at the time. He just ran away. Hiding in his closet. His father searching the house. Giving up eventually because it was too much work.
But that vodka, it tasted pretty damn good. And those emotions, they went away the further he got down the bottle. And that was that. Here we are, 12 years later. Constable Bondo half drunk at four in the afternoon. A million and a half bottles of cheap vodka later, a pack of cigarettes a day, somehow the guy limping along the road of life, somehow becoming constable of Rochester, Vermont. Getting a monthly check from the State. Avoiding phone calls. Drinking all day. Fighting moments of terror and moments of abyss. Standing in the Livingroom with two maniac detectives from the City. Walking slowly towards the kitchen to make another drink because if he doesn't get it, some things will go sideways, and go sideways very quickly.
The Constable went into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. There was a window thing between the kitchen and the living room. The two detectives were casing the joint. As the Constable saw it. But really they were just feeling bad for the guy. The place was a mess. It looked like somebody had tried desperately to clean up at different points, but gave up halfway though the action. Some things were spotless, but then other things seemed ignored for years. It was like a map of time. Of the daily actions of the Constable. The house, on the outside, seemed so neat and tidy. Even well kempt. But the inside was like a cave of sorts. With mountains of cigarette butts and empty bottles. But clean. At points. Very clean. Like the Constable had spent manic days cleaning. But instead of getting to the end of things, where the walls met the carpet, or whatever, he had given up. So the walls were literally closing in. And they could tell the guy just went from the kitchen to the living room to the kitchen to the living room, over and over and over again. Zone made a note that he should call Social Services because this guy would be dead within the year if he kept things going at this rate. It was dark. The whole scene was dark. When the Constable yelled through the window between the kitchen and the living room: "You guys want a drink?" Zone and Gagger both swore off alcohol for the rest of their lives. They yelled at the same time back: "Oh, no thanks!" Both of them wanted to run out to the Park House van and be done with this place, but they didn't. They stood there. Looking. Neither one of them sat down. The piss stains on the couch and the scary nature of the house made them shuffle around, trying to be natural. The Constable came back. He was holding a glass of pure vodka in ice. He had a cigarette between his lips. He sat down on the couch. Zone wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the cushion squirt a little urine out. Then he was convinced he smelled it. His face snarled. Gagger's did too. Zone suddenly felt bad for messing with the guy.
He said: "You doing alright, man?" The Constable perked up.
He said: "Yeah! I am doing great. Cold drink, cool smoke, couldn't be better! Have a seat, let's scat." Zone looked at Gagger, Gagger looked back. "Let's scat?" They didn't say those words, but that is what the looks meant. Gagger shrugged. Zone made face that looked like he had been kissed by an aggressive grandma as a child. He just wanted to get away, but he had no choice now. The two detectives leaned against things trying to look comfortable. They really didn't want to sit down. As a distraction, Gagger took his cigarettes out of his pocket. Handed one to Zone. Zone played with the cigarette for a while. He didn't want to light it. Gagger did the same thing. The living room was too uncomfortable. The Constable sat there smoking and drinking. Looking off into the distance. Zone thought about what he wanted to ask him, but there was nothing leading him forward. This was just too dark. The scene. Gagger slowly started moving towards the door. Zone did the same. The Constable didn't notice. He just kept drinking and smoking. Finally, Gagger got out. He ran a few steps and stopped. Looking back. Waiting for Zone. Zone got to the thresh-hold. The Constable looked up. Over at Zone.
He said: "What? You are leaving? I thought we were just getting going?" Zone, a man of absolute integrity, took this opportunity to ask a single question, the one question he had come to this house in the first place.
Zone asked: "What do Dan and Gary sell at the farmers market?" The Constable thought about this. He knew the answer, but his brain wouldn't give it to him, at first.
He said: "Yeah, um, I don't know, like produce and stuff, Gary Alone does those mushroom logs sometimes, and Union Dan has his pottery,"
Detective Zone didn't wait to say goodbye. He ran out the door. Gagger ran with him. They got into the Park House van and turned around. They were hauling ass down the road before anything. Both of them kind of sick to their stomach. Zone had his chin on the steering wheel. Basically. Gagger looked cock-squirrelled.
Zone yelled: "What the fuck?!" Gagger didn't know.
He yelled back: "I don't fucking, man! That was too dark for words!"
They got to the end of the turn-off. A vista opened up in front of them. The road went downhill. The two detectives didn't have any words. They remained silent as they drove back to town. Zone remembered his idea to call Social Services to check on the Constable. Not that it would matter. Things were too far gone at this point. They passed the berry farm. Where the grandmas and Gagger and Bonny had spent the morning. This changed the mood a little, but it didn't wash the darkness away. Zone wanted to pull over and just take a second to reflect on what had just happened. But he didn't. He kept driving. In silence. He looked down at his hands. The unlit cigarette was still there. He put it in his mouth. Gagger reached over with his lighter. Zone rolled the window up so the flame could catch. The speed limit sign changed. Zone slowed down. He blew smoke out of his mouth with the cigarette still dangling. He shook his head. Then he hit the brakes again. They were in town now. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and frowned. He sighed. Gagger sighed too.