Trouble in Melee
by Cassandra Lewis
Lately the
whole town has been on edge because a local nicknamed
Pretty-Pretty (to compensate for hideous burn scars
covering her face) has been carrying around her dead baby.
The baby died a week and a half ago. During the first two
days people paid their respects and offered their help and
moral support. When she was seen wandering around Grassy
Knoll Road on the third day with the listless bundle,
Deputy Mayor ordered a town meeting.
The meeting was
held where our town meetings are always held—Mad Dog’s bar
where I work trying to save enough money to finish
converting my grandmother’s old barn into a theater.
Forty-five of the forty-seven free residents of Melee piled
into the bar and I made more money that day than I had all
year. Most people had to stand and hover between a few
square tables and the ten-stool-length bar and I forced the
Hitchmeyer twins to quit playing darts for fear they might
accidentally pierce one of the townspeople. To lighten up
the mood, the Sunset Gunslingers played their rockabilly
music on the platform stage beside the loo. After a warm up
drink, Deputy Mayor ordered a round for everyone tall
enough before announcing his controversial
“west-proposal”.
The latest town
resolution toward establishing sovereignty was to add the
word “west” in front of words of importance, claiming them
as part of our unified western identity.
“Free citizens
of Melee, I have a west-proposal that I suggest
we discuss and vote on.” Deputy Mayor continued with his
pointed chin aimed at the ceiling rafters, “Since our poor
befallen citizen is quite troubled and in need of mental
health attention and since it is also a concern of proper
sanitation—I would be negligent in my duties as Deputy
Mayor if I did not propose the temporary bending of our
west-stance by calling on the assistance of the
police.”
Before the
Deputy Mayor’s lips finished forming the word “police,” a
parade of shots fired into Mad Dog’s ceiling. White plaster
fireworks dropped on the crowd like dead leaves at the end
of autumn. One of the shots nicked the left horn of Rufus,
the bullhead skull above the cash register. All I could
think about as I hid under the counter clutching Mad Dog’s
Remington was how angry Mad Dog would be when he discovered
someone had desecrated Rufus, his great souvenir of
mortality. Rufus was the bull that killed Mad Dog’s father
during a state rodeo and his head has hung up there ever
since.
The violent
rumpus of voices and gunfire grew so loud the floor
vibrated, threatening collapse. Finally, a shot more
powerful than twelve hand grenades exploded through the
ceiling, creating an opening wide enough to see a full
cloud in the afternoon sky. I knew at once it came from Mad
Dog’s prized Mossberg Maverick shotgun. The confirmation of
Mad Dog’s presence was enough for me to stretch out of
fetal position and raise his Remington in the air. I was
not alone. Mad Dog’s Mossberg Maverick had the voice of God
and seemed to silence everyone as they stared with
disbelief.
He stomped up
on one of the tables near the door with his shotgun ready
for action.
“How dare you
shoot up my bar! And for what—one stupid proposal? That’s
why we vote, people. Now, let’s pretend we’re civilized for
five minutes while Missy fixes us up with more
west-drinks,” he said tilting his gray cowboy hat and
shading his face so all I could see is the silhouette of
the soggy toothpick drooping out of the side of his
mouth.
The crowd
chuckled as the collective holstering of guns whispered
like storm wind pushing through branches of an old
cottonwood tree. Uninterrupted lines of light varying in
width sliced through the dust-stirred, smoky atmosphere
from where the bullets punctured the roof.
I love Mad Dog
like family, but I’ll never understand why he succumbs to
the irritating local habit of calling me Missy. It started
last year when I first introduced my plan to bring theater
to Melee. It was during the town meeting after Mayor John
Pummelman, the president of the Melee Militia, disappeared
at the annual conference where the heads of militias from
all over the country gather in Texas. Maybe he was
assassinated by one of our opponents, jealous of Melee’s
Wild West lifestyle.
That’s an
unfortunate side of militias—secrecy and wariness of
outside help can be a hindrance when someone important goes
missing. I offered to name one of the theater’s dressing
rooms after the Mayor but apparently I was the only citizen
in favor of that idea. Instead, the town awarded John
Pummelman’s bulldog the title of Mayor and Melee continues
holding meetings to strategize our sovereignty (and I
continue updating the town on the progress of the new
theater, ignoring the town’s attempts to change my name
from Timothy Dove to “Missy”).
The nickname
really sets off my mother. After Mad Dog’s remark she ran
into the loo, shielding her contorted face with her hands,
but her bawling echoed throughout the bar like a pig on a
slaughter rack. With all of her health problems I worry
that stress might be deadly.
After I
replenished the beverage needs of the town and started
sweeping up the ceiling shards, the Deputy Mayor asked the
townspeople for other suggestions to help Pretty-Pretty.
One of the Hitchmeyer twins hollered something about an old
fashioned hanging, but of course no one took him seriously.
We take care of our own in Melee. No child,
dog or man left behind—that’s our
motto. The women? Well, they can usually take care of
themselves or maybe they’re the ones forced to take care of
the child, dog and man. Who knows? We’ve had our share of
gun fights—jealous husbands busting through the bar’s
swinging doors with a pistol drawn shooting a wife’s naïve
lover—but we never had someone lose their mind to the point
where we couldn’t reason with them. We never call in the
police.
Doc, a tall
garden gnome-looking citizen known for his potent marijuana
plants, suggested we invite Pretty-Pretty into the bar and
stone her back to sanity. A handful of citizens supported
his idea. Apparently this gave Mad Dog an idea and he spoke
up.
“Hey, let’s
bring her in here and find out who the father is. After
all, this crisis situation is his responsibility before it
is Melee’s.”
By this time my
mother shuffled out of the loo, dabbing her raw and swollen
eyelids with a fistful of toilet paper. She’s an aged
woman, her wide Germanic face covered with creases. She
could be an animated cutout from a Renaissance painting
with her flawless eggshell skin and fiery long curls. I
tried to meet her eyes, but she seemed determined not to
look at me. Since she was closest to the swinging doors,
Mad Dog asked her if she’d mind fetching
Pretty-Pretty.
“No, I’m sorry,
but I need to be careful of excessive germs,” my mother
said.
There was a
rumbling in the crowd and a few chuckles, but I couldn’t
hear what was said. I had a feeling it was in protest to my
mother’s healthful caution. As supportive as the town is,
sometimes the people regress into a twisted adolescence
with their gossip and unfounded cynicism. My mother was
right to look out for her health.
“I’ll go,” I
offered.
“Missy, you
know you can’t go. We need you to make the drinks,” Mad Dog
ordered.
My mother
promptly stormed back into the loo, upset all over
again.
“Thanks a lot,”
I said, violently wiping down the
counter.
“Oh I’m sorry,
kid. I was just looking out for you. Besides, you need to
make all the money you can to open your the-ate-er!” His
chiding led the town into a bout of hysterical
laughter.
Ever since I
was a child I knew my place was on the stage. I would
create characters to complete certain chores. Raking the
leaves became a dramatic miracle. Doing the dishes
transformed me into a front-page showstopper. In my mind I
was never without an awe-struck audience. I remember
watching the movie A Chorus
Line and plotting my
escape to New York to be discovered and worshipped for my
innate acting gifts. Unfortunately, my role as Dutiful Son
Taking Care Of His Sickly Mother upstaged all my other
roles and ambitions. But I know it’s for the best. Some say
theater is a dying art and just as I struggle each day to
fight the impending death of my mother, I will also fight
the impending death of the theater. I’m starting a
grassroots effort to bring theater back to the
people—starting with Melee.
“Well, your
buddy Senator Schiffty seemed to think opening a theater
was a brilliant idea. He might even consider donating some
state funds,” I said.
“What? You told
a money-bag that Melee was planning to open some kind of
artsy-fartsy theater?” Mad Dog raised his voice as he
approached the counter, the spurs of his boots clamoring
with each stomp.
Melee makes
much of its revenue from visiting politicians and other
tourists. The town decided years ago to encourage visiting
politicians who not only spend tons of cash, but also may
serve as highly influential in the fight to win Melee’s
sovereignty. Mad Dog knows all of the visiting politicians
personally and doubles as a hunting guide during their
visits. In Melee there are no rules about hunting seasons.
We hunt whatever we want whenever we want and this is a
huge draw for visitors.
“Did you hear
what I said?” Mad Dog asked, his chewing tobacco breath
burning my nostrils.
“I don’t
understand the problem,” I said, backing away from the
counter.
Before he could
respond, Pretty-Pretty pranced through the swinging doors
holding the bundle at her heart. She exuded such pride that
I wanted to believe I was imagining the putrid
stench. A gust of wind ballooned her white cotton nightgown
in front of her like a flag of surrender. Her long mahogany
hair was neatly braided, emphasizing the scar tissue
covering her ivory face and resembling a sad, unfinished
papier-mâché project. The room suddenly muted and
townspeople crowded away from her forming a horseshoe of
rejection.
Deputy Mayor
smiled his wide college graduate smile. He pulled out a
stool for Pretty-Pretty as if she was still a normal Melee
citizen. Pretty-Pretty politely accepted the seat and
ordered two shots of tequila. No one said a word as she
gulped each shot without expression. The protective way she
held the bundle gave me an idea to eventually cast her as
Stella Kowalski in A Streetcar
Named Desire.
When her eyes,
so pale I wondered if she had cried the color from them,
beckoned another round, I noticed the dark rings beneath
them—the mark of insomnia. I kept her shot glasses full as
the Deputy Mayor worked his way up to the question of the
baby’s father.
“Good Time
Harry,” she announced between shots.
I heard the
chorus of gasps and the nervous whispering of a town just
notified of its looming end. Mad Dog rushed over to Deputy
Mayor and mumbled something in his ear.
I’m usually an
open-minded, everything-is-gray type of person, but it’s
fair to say that Good Time Harry is a mean S.O.B. He’d
rather shoot a man than say hello. The first time I met him
I couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. I was
just learning how to mix drinks, studying under a much
younger Mad Dog, when two cowboys exploded through the
swinging doors crashing to the floor. Before I had time to
take cover, Mad Dog howled, slapping his blue jean covered
thigh, “Why Good Time Harry! Welcome
back.”
Good Time Harry
leapt up and gave the man he just tackled a good kick in
the ribs with his pointed snakeskin boot and strutted over
to us. He grinned in a way where he barely moved his
crooked lips—to this day I don’t know if he has any teeth.
There was something behind his dark eyes as dangerous as a
scorpion’s tail. I remember thinking he’d be perfect for
the role of Cardinal Wolsey in a Western adaptation
of King Henry
VIII with his
intimidating charisma and unrelenting
ambition.
He tipped his
black hat to Mad Dog and ordered a Wild Turkey neat,
straddling the barstool as if it were a feisty
bull.
“When’d you get
out?” Mad Dog asked when he handed over the tall
glass.
“Just this
morning. That there,” he said, pointing to the crumpled
cowboy on the floor, “was my ride from the
pen.”
Later, when
Good Time Harry had gone through the whole bottle, Mad Dog
told me to drive him wherever he wanted to go. I wasn’t
scared because I’d just witnessed Good Time Harry unleash
random brutality on his last ride, I was scared because I
thought he might be my father.
You see, I
remember from when I was just a wee ankle biter that
whenever my mother was mad at my father she would yell so
loud I feared the veins in her neck would burst. She’d say:
“You think you’re such a Good Time Harry, but you’re not.”
Naturally, I figured my mother was two-timing my father
with this “Good Time Harry” fellow. My mother always had a
strong command over her life and sensuality like Nora
Helmer in A Doll’s
House. It didn’t
occur to me until I was somewhere in my twenties that “Good
Time Harry” was just an expression of mockery she’d use to
show her anger at my father’s senseless spending of money
they didn’t have on booze and strippers in a neighboring
town. So when I was introduced to the real life “Good Time
Harry” at the foolish age of thirteen, I assumed the
worst.
After I dropped
him off at a gas station in the next town, which he planned
to hold up, I returned to Mad Dog’s side where he filled me
in on the gossip about Good Time Harry. Harry had been in
and out of the state penitentiary since shortly after his
birth. They even made a special law based on Harry’s case
where the pen would admit toddlers who were extremely
violent. The story held that Harry murdered his mother and
father on his third birthday, after they presented him his
birthday cake. Apparently he didn’t like vanilla
frosting.
From that point
onward, he let his vicious temper lead his life, killing
with the frequency that pious folks go to Sunday church.
When he was caught murdering in a county outside of Melee,
he was thrown in jail. “Good Time” came from Harry’s unique
talent for getting out of so many life sentences. Just as
soon as a judge would throw Harry in prison for life, Harry
would earn enough “good time” credits in prison to make up
for the years sentenced and the warden would release him
again.
It was a racket
though. Rumor had it that Harry made a special arrangement
with the warden, who also happened to be his distant uncle.
The first time Harry got out of prison early was on the
same day the warden’s troublesome wife went missing. It
seemed every time Harry was let out, the warden would be
rid of another enemy or two and soon the warden had no more
enemies left. That’s why folks in the know refer to him as
“Good Time Harry”—because nobody but Harry earned that much
good time credit in the history of prisons and
criminals.
Imagine the
town of Melee’s surprise when Pretty-Pretty declared Good
Time Harry the father of the dead baby. The first thing
discussed after the shocking confession was who would be
the poor bastard to break it to Good Time Harry and with
what type of weapon should he be armed. (Mad Dog generously
volunteered his 12 gauge Mossberg Maverick.) Melee voted
and decided the messenger should be Deputy Mayor, since the
town Mayor, as I said before, is now a community owned
bulldog.
Deputy Mayor
reluctantly agreed to deliver the bad news to Good Time
Harry and Mad Dog took him out back to show him how to fire
his beloved Mossberg Maverick. All of this happened
yesterday and now every man, woman, and child is packing as
much metal as they can carry. As a precaution, I’ve “86”ed
Pretty-Pretty from Mad Dog’s bar so I won’t be caught in
the crossfire if Good Time Harry shows up during my shift.
Take it out to the road is what I’m telling
everyone.
It’s a few
minutes before sunset when my mother pushes through the
swinging doors. She’s wearing her lavender church bonnet
and the black dress she wore to my father’s funeral. That
was seven years ago and the dress fits her more like a
straightjacket than an outfit of formal
attire.
“You look
beautiful,” I tell her.
She stares at
the wood-paneled floor that I’ve yet to sweep today. Her
hands anxiously grasp at each other like two roosters in a
cockfight.
“Would you like
a cup of tea or a glass of water?” I
ask.
“No, Timothy. I
would not like anything to drink. Thank
you."
“Is there
something on your mind?” I ask, for it is very unusual for
my mother to frequent the bar unless a town meeting is in
order.
“I am not
well,” she says in the same manner a child might declare a
playmate “it” during a game of tag.
“I’m sorry to
hear that, Mother. Is there anything I can do for
you?”
She shakes her
head.
Suddenly, Mad
Dog bursts through the swinging doors and yells, “There’s a
fire! Come quick! It’s the old Dove
barn!”
The barn he’s
referring to is my grandmother’s old barn, my theater in
progress. Everyone rushes out of the bar except my mother
and I. This is the first fire to burn Melee in almost
twenty years when Pretty-Pretty survived a freak explosion
at her father’s gas station.
“I’m sorry,
Timothy,” my mother says to her lap.
My body is an
endless current of cold shock, like the time when I was a
toddler and stuck my finger in an electric socket. It was
either really hot or really cold—such an extreme sensation
that it was unidentifiable. This time instead of pulling
away, I embrace the current. In hindsight, I might call
this denial or trauma, but right now it is shameless morbid
intrigue. It is as if I’m watching my life like a gruesome
accident viewed by a rubber necking stranger stuck in
traffic.
“Why?” I
ask.
Finally, she
raises her eyes to mine. Her pupils are dilated and wild.
She’s no longer Ibsen’s Nora Helmer. She’s now Tennessee
Williams’s Blanche DuBois during the last two scenes of the
play. But I know that I will never dream of casting my
mother again.
“I couldn’t
listen to them laugh anymore,” she explains, her carefully
lined crimson lips quivering. The familiar pang of
compassion this threat of emotion used to provoke is gone.
I want her tears. I want her remorse. Any hint of
humanity.
Before my
mother has a chance to act human, Pretty-Pretty runs
through the swinging doors screaming, “He stole my baby! He
stole my baby!” She’s still
wearing the white nightgown but now her pale arms are empty
and flailing.
I grab Mad
Dog’s Remington from under the counter, spinning it so it’s
pointed at the swinging doors. My mother slinks away to the
end of the bar by the dartboard and Pretty-Pretty remains
to my immediate left, still screaming even after I order
her to pipe down.
A dark motion
dashes outside the swinging doors, pounding them open.
Reflexes I never knew existed take over and I pump three
rounds in the direction of the bolter. Before I can
identify the crouched intruder, I recognize Mad Dog’s
Mossberg Maverick.
Slamming the
shotgun onto the counter as I leap over it, I rush over to
Deputy Mayor Dipsit. Fortunately, all those years of
refusing to shoot animals while practicing on heaps of dirt
and discarded beer boxes has left me with worse aim than a
drunken blind man.
Deputy Mayor
Dipsit is shaken but unharmed. He brushes off the pant legs
of his navy blue suit and looks at me as though he’s never
seen me before. His shaggy eyebrows are cocked in a frozen
state of reproachful surprise. I apologize, but he says
nothing. Now I see that he’s holding the dead baby like a
football with the Maverick under his other
arm.
The swinging
doors crack open and Good Time Harry flies into the bar.
His venomous eyes dart from the Deputy Mayor to
Pretty-Pretty across the room, who has finally stopped
screaming.
Deputy Mayor
drops the decaying bundle to the floor and tosses Mad Dog’s
shotgun into aim in one swift motion. This startles Good
Time Harry and he whips out his .44 Magnum from its
holster. Both men are pointing their guns at each other
like they’re starring in some hokey western movie. But I
realize that’s all this town is about. This is what is
talked about over drinks: the latest hullabaloo of who shot
whom and why.
I’m tired. I’ve
been wasting my youth taking care of my ungrateful mother,
working to bring the theater arts to an ungrateful town.
Frankly, at this point a round of bullets in the belly
would be uplifting. I shuffle forward, centering myself
between the business ends of two pointed
guns.
“What the hell
are you doing?” Good Time Harry hisses. I take a good look
at him, sizing him up. Under his black cowboy hat his old
face is a landmine of pockmarks. Two black eyes peer out of
his fleshy half-closed eyelids. His eyes and mouth are
mismatched, two disconnected features expressing nothing. I
focus on his lopsided lips that look like two earthworms
lined up for a race.
“What are you
driving today?” I ask him.
His chuckle
sounds like he’s merely clearing his throat. “A 1967
Mustang convertible. Just picked it up this morning,” he
boasts.
The man must go
through a car a week.
“Tell you what,
you see my mother over there,” I point to the end of the
bar, “She has a sturdy old Vista Cruiser station wagon,
tortoise green. How’d you like to make a
trade?”
He cackles like
he’s choking on a chicken bone.
“Timothy,
please get out of here,” Deputy Mayor
says.
Good Time Harry
tells him to shut up while I pick up Pretty-Pretty’s poor
bundle. It’s light, but rock hard and bloated. I try not to
look at it, breathing out of my mouth.
“I’m sorry for
your loss. I’d stay for the funeral, but I’ve got to get
out of here. How about a trade?” I say.
“Hand me the
baby,” Good Time Harry orders.
I do and
Pretty-Pretty rushes over to him and snatches away the
bundle, holding it tightly and rubbing its middle with her
sobbing face. Good Time Harry points his .44 Magnum at
Deputy Mayor and myself with his other arm around
Pretty-Pretty’s waist. He mutters something into her ear
and her sobs lower in volume.
“If you hurry
this along, I’ll give you a lift in my new ride,” I
say.
“I’ll tell you
what, kid,” Good Time Harry says with a gleam in his eye
like a raccoon caught rummaging in a dumpster after dark.
“I’ve got some unfinished business here, but I’ll give you
a head start. The keys are in the car. If you make it away
in one piece, the car’s yours. If not, you won’t remember
it anyhow ‘cause you’ll be dead.”
Out of the
corner of my eye I see my mother’s back straighten in
disagreement, but I force myself not to meet her eyes. With
one last wink to Deputy Mayor, I dash through the swinging
doors and jump over the four steps of the porch, landing on
the damp dirt of the parking area.
Sure enough, a
fire engine red 1967 Mustang convertible awaits me with the
top down, ready to assist my escape. A four-leaf clover
plastic keychain, obviously a faulty good luck charm
belonging to the original owner, dangles from the ignition.
With one twist, the engine growls and I hit the gas racing
onto Grassy Knoll Road. I hear three gunshots coming from
the bar but I don’t take my eyes off the road. And I plan
not to until I hit Broadway.
Copyright
2010 by Cassandra Lewis