"Aces and eights, I win!" ~ The Famous Last Words of Wild Bill Hickok
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Wednesday - October 3rd
It's been two days since the Slapstick incident, and all the subsequent fun we've had in the aftermath. The strangest change in the aftermath of the whole Slapstick affair is that the tentative détente with April seems to be sticking. With Someone's Sister smoothly receded back into the shadows, regulated back down to the role of the haughty waitress of our lunch life. She only stops by to drop off May's lunch with a small snarl. Then does her obligatory watching thing and then just disappears, sometimes with only the vaguest promises to return.
True to her word, I also never heard another word from Mrs. St. Claire regarding my Chin check note. But I have heard from May, that the very next day, much to Chin's dismay, her entire collection of ancestral Celestial furnishings has mysteriously vanished. Sadly just like Mr. Chins, who was also never to be heard from again.
Although May claims that she can still smell "something seriously nasty" lingering around the classroom. So I am starting to suspect that maybe old Mr. Chins might not have made it safely back to his ancestral homeland in Wisconsin after all? That his ghost still might be buried somewhere in the back of the coat closet in the corner.
After three days of walking around in her bulky brace, I can tell that May is highly agitated. But I can tell that she is doing her best to suppress her frustration. She continually leans on me now for support when we walk together, and I am more than happy to be supportive. Of course, I offer up a piggyback ride whenever I can, for her leg's sake. But of course, she declines on "not another piggyback ride". Insisting instead that her leg feels much better in the walking caste thing that is hobbling her.
So I push my luck and double insist that it would be medically better for her if I carry her around. Especially when her leg pains her to the point wincing with every step. Sometimes May will finally give in with an air of resignation and allow me to have my way with her. Regardless of her faux brave protest otherwise, I think she is happy to have me insist more often than not at the end of the day. Thankfully we never have gotten around to having that full-on Talking Time about my Mr. Helper piggyback fetish issues.
Even with that being said, I can't seem to shake the shiver that has attached itself to my spine since that fateful day. When we are apart I am continually plagued by deeply troubling thoughts, about all the things that could go wrong with May's navigations on any given day. I have spent several sleepless nights, spiraling through the myriad of pitfalls that May has to navigate around on a daily basis. Chin's future furniture pranks, stairs, cars, open manhole covers, empty elevators shafts ...ancient unexploded landmines left over from the old Conquistador war days.
During last night's insomnia interwebbing session, I've finally reached the point that the entire world is way too dangerous a place for May to walkabout carefree. I am left with only two conclusions: That in order for May to stay safe, she must either remained locked up in the proverbial "Ivory Tower" for safekeeping. Or in the alternative, she must be armored up like the Suicide Skateboard Kid, to the point that nothing can hurt her.
Knowing May as I do now, the whole Ivory Tower is going to be a big "No Go". After all, this is the same girl who thinks piggyback rides are an infringement of her independence? So I can only imagine how she is going to react to the padded safety cell I have in mind. But the idea of armoring her up? Now that is something that I might be able to work around.
But where to locate the local armory now becomes the issue? Unless of course, I knew someone in the world of warmongering? Someone who would know where to find the best used war stuff? With these thoughts in mind, I roll out of my room and into the TV living room to intentionally start a conversation with a former warmonger.
"Hey Aces, I got a quick question that might be in your expert warring purview." I have learned that Raisins love it when you defer to their "expertise", cause it makes them feel really specialized and wit.
"Shoot." Aces bends the top of his sports newspaper down and eyes me suspiciously over the fold.
"You know if there's an Army-Navy surplus store anywhere around here anywhere?" I dead eye him back in the ways of his warlike people.
"Why? You thinking of buying a tank?" He snorts, going right in for the absurd.
"Naw not, I'm looking to score a pair of paratrooper jump boots. You know, the kind that go all the way up to the knee?" I counter back evenly.
"For argument's sake, let's say I am familiar with them." Aces spocks his brow up at me inquisitively. "You planning on jumping out of a plane anytime soon?"
"Yeah, that's exactly it, Aces." I reply dryly. "Right after I drive my new tank to school and take out that Tower of Doom thing that keeps looking at me funny."
"Well then, I hate to kill the dream Bucko, but no used tanks for sale around these parts. Or else Irish would have bought one already." Aces chuckle, clearly thinking that he's a lot funnier than he actually is. "Although over in Fallon there's a second-hand store that has some military gear, medals and uniforms and the like."
"So you think this second thought spot would have some combat boots, or what?" I shrug at him.
"Possibly?" He nods sagely, confident in his old-world wisdom. "Only one way to find out."
"Cool. So can you give me directions on how to get there?" I try to avoid the next story time session and add the need for urgency. "I got work in a couple of hours."
"Or I can just drive you over to Fallon myself? It's only about a half an hour out of the way. We can be there and back in plenty of time for you to get down to the Annex for work. And it gives me a good reason to get out of the house." He grins wryly. Which I easily translate as away from the Irish Antichrist that is my grandmother and her eternal war on what she keep a calling dinner.
"Okay, that would be cool of you to do." I shrug.
"Being cool is what I have always aspired too." Aces snorts in retort.
But instead of rising to the occasion, he just continues to sit on his TV throne eyeing me. While I stand there waiting for him to make his big move. The silence stretches on for several heartbeats, until Aces finally sighs and shakes his head sadly at me.
"You're going to go out in public like that, aren't you?" He frowns down at my Tijuana beach bum casual wear. My third worst pair of ripped up Levi's and a Zogg's Sex Wax T-shirt that has seen better breaks.
"No point in getting all dressed up to go second-hand shopping is there?" I frown down at his nice old world pressed khaki chinos. "I take it then you don't know the first rule of thrift store haggling? Those Gypsies will take what they can get. So you never ever roll in looking like you can afford the stuff you're buying. Or those dirty Thrift Store Gypsies chicks will skin you alive."
"And of course by the way you're dressed, I can only assume that you must be going in for the lowest price possible?" He snorts and rocks himself up off the barcalounger and up to standing.
"Ah, I see you too have shopped thrifty before." I drone along in agreement, just to get him going out the door.
So with that said, we take the ancient sky blue Impala out of San Fall and drive down to the dead town of Fallon. To me downtown Fallon in the daylight always has that historical battlefield "death warmed over" cemetery feel to it.
All the buildings are even lined up side by side like gravestones, with old ossuary brick and mortar everywhere. Which really gives the whole place that oppressively peaceful graveyard ambiance. Like at some point something really important happened here, but everyone who was around for that thing died out a long time ago.
The first spot we drop into in downtown Fallon is The Second Thoughts Emporium. Second Thoughts is one of those perfect places to get lost for hours, haphazardly filled with the eclectic stuff you can only find at a thrift store or a time capsule. Chock full of the sort of weird knickknacks, paddywhacks, and gizmos from estate sales. So I leave Aces over by the tools, where he is pleasantly distracted by shiny stuff and hit the long wall of shoe racks.
Turns out they have racks of cowboy boots, construction boots, rain boots, hiking boots, even a pair of those hip-high fly fishing wader onesy. But unfortunately a total bust for combat jump boots. Or anything in May's size even remotely ready for war.
I do however find a couple of pairs of used jeans for myself, that will fit with a belt. After haggling down the price to five bucks a pair, the old lady running the joint even throws in an old red rain parka that looks like it's seen better days for an extra buck. It's a short sale for sure, just to get rid of an unsellable item from inventory. I probably won't wear the thing, but it might make a decent dust cover for my Death Wish.
With Second Thoughts turning out to be a bust. I grab the old grandpa guy away from tool time, and we bail on wasting any more of his life on more stuff he doesn't need. On the roundabout way out of the "Bad Part" of Fallon town, I spy another likely spot for my shopping spree.
Re'Cycle - New & Used motorcycles and accessories.
From the outside, Re'Cycle looks like an old house that someone converted into a chop shop. Complete with its very own graveyard of dead bikes behind a barbwire chainlink fence, in what was once the backyard. I get the distinct feeling this shabby shop was probably a backyard junkyard in its former incarnation. So rather than clean up the mess, someone finally gave up even pretending and opened up shop. Got a legit business license just in order to get the city off their back.
"I need to go there." I point over to Aces, who eyes the place suspiciously.
"We don't really have a lot time, Darren. Not if you need to go home and change before work." Aces taps at his old sky killer watch.
"No worries," I shrug him off. "If need be my extra guard gear is already in my locker at the Annex."
The minute we roll into Re'Cycle I know it's exactly my kind of place. It reeks of old oil and accidents, and there are all manner of stripped parts just hanging haphazardly all over the walls. Everything from Harley's down to mini motocross bikes, and even some strange foreign stuff are out on display in pieces.
By the looks of it, I'm guessing this isn't the kind of place that gets a lot of females and families of four on the regular. Especially seeing that the possibly shadiest ex-con ever, is sitting behind the counter is eyeing us over his vintage copy of "Big Gunz" girlie mag. One look at this neck tattoo'd dude, and I easily name the gypsy Greasy McShady.
"You looking for anything in particular ...or just looking?" Greasy flips through the pages of his girlie mag lazily. Translation: You got money or you just gonna waste my time?
"Riding boots, ladies or big kid sizes? Knee-high, steel toes with shin guards plates, would be ideal." I eye around the empty shop.
"New or used?" He counters without even bothering to look up from the dangling centerfold spreadsheet.
"Don't care, so long as they're what I'm looking for ...and the price is right." Translation: Yeah, I got money to spend, but I ain't about to get took for a ride Greasy Gypsy Guy.
"Used boot bin is out back, just around the corner in the big bin under the blue tarp. If you can't find what you're looking for in there, we can always special order a custom pair for you."
Translation: Tell me what you want and I will have some guy steal it, and then overcharge you an arm and a leg for the privilege of doing business.
"Got it." I weave my way through the cannibalized motorcycles to the backdoor junkyard.
Unlike the Second Thoughts thoughtful organization, namely all the boots tagged together in pairs. Recycle has a more esoterical eclectic approach to the organization. They apparently dump everything they have in the way of footwear into a massive metal bin outback. Then let you enjoy the existential experience of digging around to find the matching pairs.
"No way..." I immediately pull up a black leather riding boot, with ratchet tank straps and contoured steel impact plates for shins, calves, and ankles.
This thing is made for violence, even the name bespeaks stomping the crap out of life, Blitz Boots by Thor. I mean com'on, Thor the thunder and lightning god stomping boots? With steel shank inserts on the toes, padded insides for comfort and cushioning, for when you kick the hell out of something ...or someone. Hells Bells, even I want a pair of these thunder god boots, cause these things look like it could kick my ass sideways just for holding them wrong.
I shake out May's spare sock from my pocket, that I have been carrying around like a talisman for two days. Place the sock up against the bottom of the sole to eyeball the sizing. It's not a perfect fit, but looks to be slightly on the big side by a size or so, but it's close enough to count. So I'm thinking with a pair of extra-thick camping socks, problem solved with room to grow. But now begins the existential part of the adventure...finding the matching pair to the almost perfect pair of stomping boots.
Aces has posted up in the back doorway, just watching me sift through the boot bin and discarding everything I touch. His ancient wisen eyebrow is spocked up inquisitively, but he says nothing. He just taps his watch face while continually mumbling "tick-tock". Just to remind me that we are on the clock here, and time is not on our side.
So of course, I can't find the matching Thor boot until almost the bottom of the bin. Where it tried to hide from me inside another bigger boot. I snatch it up fast and roll for the counter, where I thump them down in front of the thieving Gypsy.
Greasy McShady glances up from his naked Gunz mag and grunts. "Fifty bucks."
"Tag says twenty-five." I point out the clearly displayed price sticker on the webbed soles.
"Each." He counters evenly, thumbing over a page.
Yeah, I hate to say it, but I was absolutely right ...Re'cycle is exactly my kind of spot. I am sorely tempted to start the hard haggle, and just walk away. Let him try to reel me back in with a "Hold on let me see what I can do?"
But gods be dammed, these Thor stomping boots are perfect for May! So obviously my love for them is clearly blazing in my eyes, and Greasy McShady damn well knows it. I can already tell that haggling with this gypsy is a lost cause, and this existential journey into the heart of darkness is now about to make me late for work. Which is a huge 'No Go' in Old Joe Blake's world of water.
"Okay, this time." I slap the money on the counter. "But next time we haggle like gypsies."
"Plus tax." He drones, adding insult to injury. "Fifty-seven sixty."
"Excuse me, Sir? But what are those things you're looking at in Gunz? Boy, those sure don't look like any firearms I have ever seen." I nod to his girly mag and blink. "I'm a minor, and this is my elderly grandfather guy, the super judgmental church deacon dude. And now I am suddenly super confused. Grandpa guy, are those what all the girls look like without bathing suits on? Even the good girls at church have all those funny round things stuck on their ribs?"
"Sure, why not." Aces shrugs off the situational stupidity of this scene.
"Okay kid, nicely played." Greasy snorts and rolls up his smiling gypsy eyes. "Fifty even, take it or leave."
"Taken." I tap the money on the countertop, where it quickly disappears into the pages of his Young Gunz magazine filing system.
So I snatch the boots and beat it, while I still can get away from this guy. Cause Greasy McShady is exactly my kind of people. So I know better than to mess around with this gypsy while I am still slightly behind on the deal.
"Thank you, come again." He drones after us as the jingle bell door closes.
"Oh trust, I will return. And next time I won't be so nice." I laugh on the way out with Aces in tow.
"Better luck next time brat." Greasy McShady snorts in retort.
Aces eyes the boots as soon as we jump into the Ace mobile and head back to San Fall.
"Those don't look like your size?" He points out the obliviously.
"For a friend in need." I shrug. "Maybe."
"Maybe what?" He frowns.
"Exactly." I smile and nod. "So let's hit the road, Grandpa guy. Tick-Tock old bro, time is not on our side."
"Crazy kid." He shakes his head and fires up the old Impala for the return trip to San Fall.
Aces thankfully gives up trying to comprehend the younger generation and heads towards the Annex at an ungodly speed of two miles below the posted speed limit. Which in Rasin racing is like a bat out of hell. So thanks to Aces less than Nascar like driving, I barely make it into the Annex in plenty of time for my shift to start.
I leave the thunder gods boots in the care of Aces and head into the pool. I change into my gear fast and take the throne to babysit the lappers, just in time for the Happy Hearts roll in for their water dancing downing class. I even bare my fangs and give a wave to one of my Maltese buddies, Mrs. Corn, there for her weekly aquatic aerobics.
All in all, I'd have to say today was a successful start to my new Maybe armory program.