LIFE AND DEATH ON

THE MISSISSIPPI

By

Brian Mead & Max Porter

EXCEPRT

“I’M SO TIRED OF not have’n nothing.”

Actually, I’m so tired of hearing me say that I’m tired of not having nothing – but, I guess when you are born into this global economic caste system that this country prides itself on, have’n nothing’s supposed to really be something.

These are my buddies, we all grew up together in this dirty little river town.  Cook, he’s the fat one, still lives at his parents house holed up in the basement like it was a bomb shelter, bedding down the occasional drunken bar slut and feeling pretty satisfied as night shift manager at the local burger joint.

Bill Ruger a.k.a. Germ, he’s the bad-ass of the bunch, always shoot’n his mouth off and backing it up.  Bill’s been spreading herpes around here as long as anyone can remember.  Tending bar helps facilitate this since he can mix the drinks to suit and steer the conversation.  Bill always seems to bag the bombshells leaving Cook to jump on the hand grenades.

Tommy “T-Bone” Kendall, he’s the dope head.  I guess everyone knows one.  He’s always try’n to get me to smoke that shit.

“C’mon dude, this is good bud man.”  Tommy offers up as we are driving over to meet Cook and Bill at the bar.

“Listen resin head –how many times have I told you, not in my car, just put it out till we get there!  Christ!  I don’t (sniff) now the whole damn car stinks!  Thanks a lot dumb ass, you’re gonna get me thrown in jail!”

T-bone finds a way to get on my last frick’n nerve sometimes.

Tommy just can’t go into this joint unless he’s higher than a kite.  Usually he spends the first twenty minutes or so toke’n up out by the dumpster before we go in and I get stuck play’n watchdog for him.

“Not tonight asshole!”  I snatch his joint and pitch it out the window.  T-bone blows his traditional gasket till I agree to buy him a shot to shut him the fuck up.

By the way, my name is Ted, but everyone calls me Captain, Cap for short.  I don’t really know why they call me that, either it’s ‘cause I’m kinda like the top turd on the shit pile, or it’s ’cause I wear a hat all the time.  Actually, it could be because I have a high school diploma.

Anyway, we were all born and raised in Fort Madison.  It’s a small blue collar town in southeast Iowa straddling the Mississippi River, real Huck Finn stuff.  We spent most of our childhood catfishing and trying to steal beer and cigarettes when the opportunity presented itself.  Our parents became professional victims in short order.  Nowadays, as adult delinquents, our life’s goal is to get jobs at the state prison -- on the right side of the bars.

Right now I’m laid off from my awesome (sarcastic) job on the barges.  I do love being out on the river map’n scour holes and eddies for monster cats, but my foreman is a slave drive’n prick!  When we ain’t busy, I gotta chase a pile of dirt around the deck with a broom instead of dropping a worm.  God I hate him!  Unemployment ain’t enough to get me by during winter freeze up, and cart’n my friends sorry asses all around town in a seventy-six Caddy doesn’t help my financial situation in the least.

Pulling up to the bar, I have to air my car out before playing watch dog for Spicoli.  He immediately jets across the gravel lot for the dumpster while simultaneously rolling another fatty; it’s almost like watching a ballet.

 “Hurry up, let’s go Tom!”

 I just need a beer.

Germ’s work’n the bar tonight at the Southside Brew Pub, so drinks are always priced right – mostly free.

“Word up Billy Bob!”  I greet Bill as Tommy Chong and I fumble up to a bar stool.

“Had to throw a couple dickheads outta here earlier; nothing too serious.”  Germ says, not even looking up from the screwdriver he’s mixing me.

“Looks like you’ve been hanging out by the dumpster Tommy.”  Bill shoots a glance at T-bone.

“Blow me Germ, just grab me a Bud.”  T-bone fires back.

“Where’s fat-ass Cook tonight?”  I ask Bill.

“He’s closing tonight, said he’d show up later, something about a poker game too.”

Busting out these creampuffs at a poker table has become second nature for me.  I have absolutely no conscience when it comes to check raising my friend’s right into the loser lounge.  Poker has managed to keep my car on the road and smokes in my pocket; besides, since none of these freeloaders ever cough up any gas money, I feel it makes us even.

“You still sleep’n in the back Germ?” I ask Bill between drags.

“Nah Cap, I’ve been stay’n over by Linda’s place.  Kelly won’t even look at me right now.”  Bill sighs.

Linda and Kelly are two of Germ’s girlfriends.  He’s got a son with each of them, plus, he’s got a daughter with a gal from up in Burlington.  All three of these women have a love/hate thing going on with Germ.  They hate him for burning them with herpes and being a deadbeat, but they just can’t walk away.  I think they feel sorry for him, and each believes that somehow, if they can make a new man out of him, he will be loyal to them.  These women are suckers!  Bill knows he’s a good look’n guy and he ain’t got any intentions of being loyal to anyone.  Personally, I think he just doesn’t give a shit about anything or anyone unless it’s about him or his penis.  I guess it’s easy not to care about anything when you’ve been mopping up glass and puke at the Southside for Jack Holstrom for the last eight years.

Jack’s Southside is your standard brick circa eighteen-nineties dive.  Jack bought it back in the seventies for twenty-one grand plus some gambling debts, and he hasn’t put a dime in it since.  Jack lets Bill stay here in the stock room when ever he can’t get a woman to look after him.  You would think that sleeping in this urine-soaked hellhole would be enough to drive any man straight, but I suspect its all part of Germs “feel sorry for me” act.  I promise the action doesn’t stop around here at closing time.  Sooner or later, Linda will get her fill, and Bill will be dragging his sorry ass back here once again with his pillow under his arm.

“You ready for another drink Cap?”  Bill hollers.

“Yeah, set us up again.”

 Tommy and I are having it out on the pool table for a fin a game and I’m starting to get pretty loaded.  God damn Germ makes ‘em strong!

 “Hey Bill, you wanna cash my unemployment check for me?”  I yell down the bar.

 “I don’t think we have that kinda money around here Trump,” Bill responds.

Ha, Germs a funny guy!

I’m into T-bone for a twenty spot when Cook comes strolling in with his poker chips and three broads I’ve never seen before.  This is highly unusual for Cook to be tote’n the weaker sex around with him, usually he is picking through the hand-me-downs from the rest of us or just getting outright bitch slapped.

“Brought some new player’s for the game tonight BOYZ!” Cook blasts out in a lower than usual voice.

I think he realizes he doesn’t pull his weight around here (no pun intended) so he’s gonna make sure that we all know he’s play’n the big pimp daddy tonight.

T-bone takes advantage of the distraction and leans into me.

“That’s cool.  I wasn’t expecting any action tonight.”

“Yeah, I want to play the ‘clothes off’ kind of poker.  Let’s get ‘em drunk.”

“Hey Germ, match us on the juke box will ya?  And set us up with a shot!” I yell down to Bill as I slide Cook a five.

“Here ya go fat boy, load the juke box up, and play some Hank Jr. while you’re at it!”

Giving Cook orders is par for the course.  He’s a great guy, but he just cries out “abuse me.”

“And play the girls whatever they want to hear, unless it’s that bubblegum shit!” I bark at Private Cook one more time.

“LAST CALL!” Bill yells out after about two hours of verbal foreplay.

It’s about one thirty in the morning and we are chomp’n at the bit to get these Missouri babes butt naked.  Germs doing his best to usher some of the locals out while we are busy sneaking into the back getting the table set up.  We’ve done this bit so many times before, but it’s always more fun with some strange in the house.  Bill’s doing his job mix’n ‘em strong, and Cook’s playing his role as jester.  I’m trying to be Captain cool and set this blonde up for a back seat rendezvous on some broken down leather.

That’s one great thing about Jack’s place, the parking lot is real dark and the neighbourhood is run down, just an old neon beer sign in the window, a grain elevator down the alley and a couple abandoned apartment buildings across the street.  This all makes having sex in the back seat of your car very convenient.

This blonde chick Sarah, from Mizzou -- she’s the one I got my eyes on; and if I know Germ, he’ll be trying to isolate her so he can regurgitate his mack all over her.

“Let’s go guys, deal em up!  Sarah, can I grab you another drink?”   I croon in my most suave voice.

“That’s fine Cap.”  She replies in that soft hillbilly drawl.

We on!!