Saturday, April 19, 1:15 PM
Clyde Burl eschewed a paper job even in the old days, in his youth. That had been by instinct, staying away from boss kind and government; working for cash. Now, in smart phone time, without a phone at all, he found himself hemmed into a decreasingly narrow cashscape. One could wash a car window for a nice lady at the traffic light, and she had to venmo you or paypall you. So Clyde, looked for older men, those older than his 61 years. He would have to make his way like this for another ten months—then, Reparations Day, Jubilee, Redemption; 972 dollars a month of Social Security!
‘Thank you, Mister Barnes, for putting me on that paper job a roofing in those old Chicago Days, before the blacks done run us out.’
Crossing Farnsworth on Lakeview on his scooter, Clyde felt something south of proud as he heard his saddle bags made of five gallon buckets rattle with their supplies. The right one held hydration, bottles of water, vitamin water, cooled with blue ice packs, themselves kept cold in Mrs. Alby’s freezer. That nice lady let him sleep on her shaded back patio in return for maintaining the yard, hauling groceries, trash, recycle and walking Benny, her toy dog, who rode in the basket between his handlebars.
Easter was coming and Clyde wanted to show his appreciation with an Easter basket of dog treats and a toy for Benny, and a white rose for Mrs. Alby. Not having to pitch a tent around tweakers in some bad part of Phoenix or get his ass rousted by cops in this good part of Mesa, motivated him to caddie. The rich dudes with their perfect teeth, even tans and thick white hair, in their golf carts, sometimes let him caddie for them. It was mostly about the hydration for which he was well prepared. Also, in his left side saddle bucket rattled his cleaning supplies, rags, tap water and sponges for detailing those golf carts that most people used for neighborhood transportation. It was one of the nice things about this place, that instead of the rumble of gas guzzlers, one heard the passage of his friends as an easy whine.
Some flowers were blooming from front yard catci after the rain. Rain on Good Friday thrilled his old Polish, Catholic heart within his sunken chest.
Up to the first hole he whined and rattled on his trusty scooter, his long painter’s pants flapping in the warm breeze. The course was nearly deserted. There were two pairs playing the 7th Hole. There was one couple, a man and woman, putting on the 18th Hole. There was no need for a caddie in either situation. He did, however, sense that the couple on the 18th hole, who seemed overdressed in gray suit, and yellow suit dress, were thirsty. Inspired, as if by a psychic cry for relief, Clyde was on the case.
‘They must be new snow birds, like I was once.’
Speeding up to the 18th Hole as the woman brushed back her blonde hair from under her yellow sun hat, no drinks in sight, Clyde noted that the man leaned on his putting iron. Pulling up on the path, Clyde dismounted, waved to the man, and grabbed a water and a vitamin water, walking out to the couple, who drifted more closely together. The woman was finely shaped and of an age he could not determine. The man seemed a tall, strong fifty—a rich dude who knew what he was about.
“Sir, Ma’am, I’m late to caddie. Folks new to Arizona sometimes run dry—the desert wind sneaks up on your skin like that!”
The man smiled, looking like the actor who played in Mom’s favorite movie, about Miss Scarlet, the slave owning chick, if that dude were blond. That smile was accompanied by an accepting nod from the man, indicating that his lady was thirsty.
Clyde bid this as a guide and stopped within arm’s reach, glad he had brushed his teeth, remembering to take off his White Socks cap with his left as he extended his right hand with two bottles suspended between his cleaned and manicured fingernails, “Miss,” he adjusted his address to a more complimentary word, “Welcome to Mesa. I work for a local lady. This is a gift.”
“So generous,” she cooed, like a 1960s gold digger.”
He then turned to look for their golf cart and saw there was none. The man nodded to the distant lot, and said, “Clyde, thank you so much for attending my wife.”
‘What the hell?’ he mused, his eyes widening in a tell.
“You are well known and thought of, Clyde. You have been recommended for day labor and detail work as a responsible man. We were expecting you.”
“Yes,” agreed the unnamed wife as she sucked the contents out of that vitamin water bottle with a relish that bespoke a deep thirst. Her eyes were magnetic, his voice more so.
“Clyde, I have acquired a local business of ill repute, a dirty habitat to be certain. It is my intention to rehabilitate the interior ahead of the exterior. I shall require you to go there directly, upon your bike, with your cleaning supplies. Await our arrival in yonder Tesla.”
His mouth was gaping as his good luck to run into a serious business man offering employment dawned on him. A doubt did creep into his mind as his ears began to ring, ‘I hope it’s a cash job—rich folks are going electric.’
The man’s long, lean, strong hand, extended under that slate silk suit jacket, the golf club in the other hand rocking back and forth above that shinny dress shoe in no way intended for golf, like a pendulum… “Clyde, good Clyde, this job is under the table—CASH on the barrel.”
Clyde looked up from the head of the rocking putting iron to the sound of The Boss’s hot wife sucking down the regular water. Embarrassed that he had zoned out, he checked the eyes of The Boss and saw there all the confidence in the world for Clyde’s ability, and mumbled, “Understood, Sir. I’m your man. The address?”
The Boss intoned evenly, “East on Main, the purple building on the right, unfortunately labeled Adult Video. I have it for a song and shall use the shell for a vitamin transfusion center. Clyde, you will be making Mesa a better place.”
“Yes, Sir,” agreed Clyde as he took the empty bottles from those two lovely hands, so ageless for a middle aged woman with a tan.
…
The Boss opened the door of the blacked out building, his wife standing quietly behind. The interior was strange, with large screen TVs on the walls and three hot tubs facing. The TVs had silent videos of rain in a bamboo jungle, babbling brooks and a sea shore. There was an unoccupied counter to the right.
Within the tubs were three people, a long haired white tweaker, a Mexican working man of decent sort, and a cute little brunette of the age and quality Clyde had only ever been near in his dreams. The people each had a medical IV set up on both sides. The one on the left looked like saline, the one on the left, blood. Their eyes were all looked dreamily each on their TV image, images that were looping already, less than a minute in.
‘What the hell?’ Clyde mused, keeping a dumb face.
The Boss put a comforting hand on his shoulder and assured him, “This is perfect, and proper, Clyde—HEALTH CARE. Observe the contentment on their faces, Clyde. You shall attend them today, tonight and tomorrow, soak them in warm brine and replace their saline. Their blood bags, when full, shall be stored in the refrigeration unit. Each has a dedicated shelf.”
Clyde saw the three buckets of kosher salt, the Sysco kind they used at the bakery he worked in back in Squirrel Hill, Pittsburgh after he beat the meth habit.
“Yes, Clyde,” like water bagels, assured The Boss.
Clyde’s hand was now lifted as if on its own while The Boss placed his left hand kindly on Clyde’s back, and with his right hand placed there, six American Silver Eagle coins!
“CASH! Clyde, we pay CASH…”
“Yes, Sir, I’ve brined turkeys for the Mormons I used to garden for.”
The Boss’s wife then stood before him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him, kissed him like an angel of desire as she petted the side of his head in adoration. Clyde had never felt so cared for.
‘She’s The Boss’s; don’t shit where you eat, you dumb Pollock!’
She looked at him with crazy, lust-filled eyes, The Boss’s power hand still on his back, The Boss said, “Clyde, you shall obey My Wife, and her Sister, in all things.”
“Yes, Boss—best job I never had!”
‘I am hungry, though, what with no lunch,’ he thought, afraid to complain to such a good Boss.
“Good Man, Clyde. Now attend our guests. You may eat salt and drink water, nothing else until Sunday, midnight. Then you may have the whiskey behind the counter and the goat cheese in the blood bank.”
“Yes, Boss,” he reacted, suddenly free of hunger and incurious of thirst.
