There is not yet a title for this short story. It is also unrelated to DIY Religion. I’d like to share it here. I wrote nothing for DIY Religion this week. It is incomplete. This is what I have so far. It is not a fool. Today is April 1st. My magic CD player refuses Yanni discs. I have a shoe.
Guard Box and the Junkyard (a short)
Rory Gerard could finally ease into the creaky chair in the guard shack at Paulini’s Junktion. He worked security at the eclectic junkyard that served primarily as a pull-a-part for anyone seeking random auto bits, but it was also a haven for packrats and hoarders. They stocked what seemed like rows upon rows of kitchen sinks, sewing machines, twisted up bicycles, pipe, scrap metal, and just about anything you could imagine might be found in a junkyard. It was so big that a most folks came from out of town to dig through piles of junk in search of treasure. The boss, Pauly, had suspended third shift after the third murder. This meant Rory wouldn’t get paid. Not getting paid meant that rent funds would come up short, and he refused to ask his dad for any help. Luckily the murders came to an end, albeit a grisly one, when the sheriff finally caught the filthy drifter Hank Johnson, a man who brought hell to their small town.
~
It all started with the murder and maiming of twenty-two-year-old Donna Kluge. Married at seventeen to Gabe Kluge, Donna was one of the most beautiful young women in town. Her green thumb and dedication to Gabe drove the men in town crazy with envy. She had apparently been out harvesting carrots in her huge field of a garden. This is where her husband found her. She was covered in small scratches and bite marks. Her stomach spilled out onto the upended basket of carrots. She sold produce at the farmer’s market on the weekend, but this would be no more. The scene gripped the entire town with fear as the story grew in its depravity with each retelling, as if the hard facts weren’t depraved enough. Floyd Cooper was next. His body was found murdered in a similar fashion, next to the dumpster behind Bob’s Grocery. His entrails lay out as if they were pulled and trailed toward the bushes that grew at the back of the building. Floyd had been taking out the garbage at night. It happened that fast. Three more murders followed, all within two months. And there was one more.
Dicky Murphy was what most adults at that time called ‘slow.’ The kids in town used different words and names. These, most often, were ‘retard’ and ‘stupidest.’
“Hey stupidest!” they would cry out and laugh as Dicky looked on, longing to play with them. He liked to play pretend and didn’t mind being the dog if it meant they wouldn’t call him names other than Scruffy or Rex. The name-calling ceased after Dickey became town hero one summer. The designation borne from the guilt of parents who giggled when their own children made jokes about Dicky. He surprised everyone though, when he saved Eunice Reynolds from a fire that broke out while she was washing dishes. Some of the other kids, Eunice’s nephew Floyd included, had been playing with matches behind her home. When the fire got out of hand, they ran off, full of fear. The thought of alerting Mrs. Reynolds never entered their minds. Within moments, the entire rear of the house was engulfed.
~
Dicky had been watching the others from behind the detached garage in Eunice’s driveway. There were three boys gathered around Floyd and an older girl smoking a cigarette. They were the type that would usually make fun of him. He watched as the match flame was held to an old mattress. The flame grew. He saw the fire get out of hand. He felt the fear they had, as if he had taken part in the deed. When the flames began to climb the rear of the house and the guilty party ran away, Dicky pounced into action. He ran to the front of the house, entered the front door and shouted, “FIRE! FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!” He saw the old woman come out of the kitchen and he shouted again, “FIRE!” with a look of terror on his face. Eunice saw the dread in his eyes and ran toward him, toward the front door. Dicky grasped her hand in his and ran with her out into the front yard.
When the fire truck arrived, the local volunteers battled and defeated the worst blaze since the glass factory explosion over thirty years prior. Unfortunately, the fire didn’t go without a fight, and Eunice’s home paid dearly. From across the street, She watched as her world crumbled before her eyes. Her husband had built the home with the help of his father. She stood behind Dicky and put her hands on his shoulders.
“Don’t worry Dicky, that’s what insurance is for,” she said, looking at a group of kids gathered in the distance, under a black elm her Herbert had planted years ago. “I do hope Jiffy didn’t suffer much,” she spoke as if in a daze. Jiffy was the odd, blue-eyed, white rabbit Eunice found in her back yard and kept as a pet. He was good company in the absence of her husband, who died at eighty-four from heart failure. Men from the town pitched in and built Eunice a new house the following summer. It was more modest, but it had a porch and was a testament to the spirit of the community.
Dicky rode on top of the fire engine in the 4th of July parade that year. Officially designated town hero, everybody’s heart felt that much heavier when he was murdered five years after the fire. He was the sixth and last person to be slain before Sheriff Fowler apprehended Hank Johnson. It happened on his way home from Paulini’s Junktion where he helped separate and sort through mountains of junk. He had taken a well-travelled path he knew like the back of his hand. It went through the woods, over the train tracks, and came out around the corner from his house. A sheriff’s deputy found his body in those woods. When Dicky’s dad told Fowler the boy hadn’t come home from working at the junkyard, the worn thin lawman wasted no time in organizing a search party. Whoever was out there murdering and mutilating townsfolk had him worried that the worst had befallen young Dicky. Checking the old path was a no-brainer. Dragged off of the path, a pile of flesh and bones were all that remained. Claw marks dug into the ground, broken and bloody fingernails were lodged in the hard dirt. Small bites were detected. The boy had struggled. It was the same MO, but more brutal. His clothing and his dental records were used to identify the mess.
Two days after Dicky was found, a man was seen near High Bridge. Sheriff Fowler and a team of deputies mobilized. They approached and took the bedraggled vagrant at gunpoint under the bridge. It was difficult to discern his age. He looked like a nasty old hobo, but the pale eyes that looked out from under the brim of a worn top hat indicated youth. A dark haired beard with a stripe of white grew just long enough to cover his neck. He wore a maroon vest of silk over a dark brown shirt, its front sewn together where the buttons should have been. His pants were a dirty gray and black as well as his shoes that were nearly worn through. He walked slow and with grace and allowed them to take him to the station. The sheriff feared this man as much as he wanted to rip his heart out. He knew there could be no other murderer because he knew each and every person in his small town. Though there were a few drunks and a few who liked to get heavy handed with their women, none were capable of the evil this man was.
He told them his name was Henry Johnson.
“Henry Johnson, is that right? Well listen here Hank, I don’t know why ya done it, but ya did. And there ain’t no way in hell you’re gonna get anything less’n tha death penalty. Ya hear?” Sheriff Fowler tried to talk in his normally intimidating voice, but he didn’t muster his usual fire. The man sat in the cell, calm.
“I am a simple traveler sir. I find myself here, in your village. I do not seek to harm the innocent, but only to right wrongs and experience what I can of this world.”
“Aw Christ, a goddamned new age Hippie fag that murders folk and eats ‘em. You’re gonna fry mister. You hear me? Fry!”
~
Rory dug into his tin lunch box and pulled out a pimento cheese on white toast sandwich. He was a lanky young man, fresh out of high school and on his own. He knew it was coming because his dad always told him that, as soon as he turned eighteen, he’d be out of the house. Now he was nineteen and still working at the junkyard. He prayed his third go at getting on at the fire department would be the charm. His skinny hand lifted the sandwich to his mouth, and he took a bite. His dark hair was cut short. He wore an unbuttoned, brown and black flannel shirt over his volunteer fireman’s t-shirt. His jeans were his only pair; he went months without washing them. Ever since he watched Floyd Copper burn Mrs. Reynolds house to the ground, he made a solemn promise to be a fireman. He became a volunteer as early as he could at sixteen. He received his class “A” firefighter certificate before he was even allowed to be what they called an interior firefighter. While the department was ninety nine percent volunteer, there were five permanent firemen positions. Now that Gabe Kluge was gone, one coveted spot needed to be filled. He thought of these things to get his mind off of Dicky.
~
Dicky came to like Rory. They didn’t see each other much, but after he started helping sort things at the junkyard, Dicky would see Rory on days the older kid came in to work early. Rory treated him good, and he never called him names like he used to, before the fire. They even used to play washers by the guard shack until it started to get dark and Dicky had to head home.
They didn’t hang out together all the time or go to the movies together, but young Dickey began to think of Rory as the coolest guy he knew…
Will Maybell win a trip to the city?
What will become of cousin Boyce Ray Raymonsonsen?
Tune in next time to find out what happens to the Caped Crusader and the Boy Wonder. Same BAT TIME, same b a t h o
