Wheel of Light by: Morgan Utesch, Photograph, 2015.
Small Town Bastards [cont…]
by: Jason Woods
At eight in the morning, Enema crashed through my bedroom door declaring that I get my ass out of bed and go with him to the scene of the crime. I had barely opened my eyes when he asked what I was waiting for. He said I had better start getting excited because the whole state of Northwest Ohio was en mass and at the Methodist church. Knowing that Enema was studious in the art of hyperbole, I said that I had to at least brush my teeth. He commented that my breath raced through the air like a dozen roses crammed up a fat Milwaukee meat-packer’s ass. I gave a chuckle and headed for the bathroom to add some mint to my exhale.
We arrived at the scene in ten minutes, and I realized that Enema was legit about his calculation of the crowd. Our plans had provided for a gathering to arise from our messages, but we did not factor in the possibility of a news van equipped with live feed from Lima, Ohio, a news reporter from the Findlay Courier newspaper, or Sherriff Boutwell with three deputies to be on the scene, along with what looked like every member of our little community. Proof that when a wolf is slayed, the sheep marvel at how uncanny the sheep’s clothing fit cozy around the wolf. Pastor Weiricht was sedentary on the steps to the church’s front doors next to the Lutheran Pastor, Pastor Freed. They both wore exasperated expressions that pulled at their shoulders. To the right of the pastors sat the marquee, unadulterated from the previous night. Mr Riegel goes to Fort Wayne, to see the Swinging Dale’s strip, but never the dames. He’s preached against such acts, but his lust for men are the facts. The only difference between him and Newlove are the toys with which they play.
Enema tapped my shoulder and nodded to the news van as the reporter and her cameraman headed to the front of the church. She situated herself in a manner that ensured that the marquee was just to the left of her in full view. Once in place, the camera man gave the finger count. As she began her coverage, Painter Joe walked out of the crowd and sauntered up to the marquee, performed a flawless about face and yelled, “This town has been put on notice!” The reporter stopped and spun around to see who was disturbing her live feed. The cameraman remained steady. “You people,” continued Painter, “have fallen prey to wolves. Wolves that have preached the truth and lived a lie.” Painter snapped his head left and said, “Shut up Andy, I’m doing the preaching!! Mr. Newlove and Mr. Riegel are the first Philistines to be slayed with a stone. Yes Bart, I said Philistine, now spread the fuck out and quit with the interruptions! To the rest of the sheep in this town, you had better learn real quick who your shepherd is. If there are any more wolves left, just know that the Ultimate Shepherd will strike you down like the last two.” Two of Sherriff Boutwell’s deputies tranquilly grabbed Painter Joe and escorted him to a patrol car. Painter said that if he was detained that Simon, James, Andrew, Levi, Philip and Bart were to go with him. Sherriff Boutwell, who was well versed in Joe’s condition, assured Joe that the boys would be in good hands.
The news reporter turned back to her cameraman and finished her live lead. Enema turned to look at me and whispered that Painter Joe inadvertently admitted guilt for the message. I replied that Joe would not be taken to county jail. Boutwell would let Joe go once things settle down. Just then Pastor Freed got up and addressed the crowd. “The Riegel family,” he started, “is to be shown the proper respect, and their privacy for the time being should be paramount. There is no reason why we should be standing here. I encourage all of you to go home and carry on about your day as normal as possible. I know everyone is concerned for the Riegel family and, in due time, we can help. Until then, please exercise wisdom in this matter. On behalf of Pastor Weiricht and myself, we thank you for understanding.” With that being said, Pastor Freed walked over to all the news reporters and calmly asked them to go back to their offices. His calm demeanor proved valuable as the news teams loaded up and drove out of town. As the crowd, dispersed Sherriff Boutwell opened the patrol car and let Painter Joe and his gang go free. I could see that Boutwell was talking to Joe, but I was too far away to hear the conversation. Painter Joe just shrugged his shoulders with his palms facing up and walked away.
Enema and I decided that we needed to round up the gang and meet at Hammy’s house later in the day. We had to stay away from Carl’s for a couple of days. Enema said that he would notify everyone, and that he would also stop by Carl’s to let him know that in a couple of days we would get in touch with him. As I walked to my house I wondered how we were going to pull off our final message. I was out of letter tiles, except for the z’s and q’s, and both churches would be vigilant in monitoring their marquees.
We all arrived at Hammy’s house and went straight to his barn. Once we were all settled Enema began by informing us of his brief conversation with Carl. Carl wasn’t big on material at the time, since the dust was still blowing in the wind from the proceedings of the day, but Enema reassured us all that Carl was keeping his ears open to any and all personal dissemination that filtered his way. I took over the meeting by addressing the fact that we needed to send one last message to the town, and in order to do that we needed more letter tiles because the last message cleaned me out. We would need Carl’s help with procuring more letters in some untraceable manner. The last thing we needed to do was start a trail that could be followed to anyone linked in this fiasco. Spoons brought up the point that our fountain of luck using the church marquees had been drained. Everyone shook their heads in agreement. After today, the town would be keeping an eye on the church for further monkeyshines. Hammy added that Sherriff Boutwell, or one of his deputies, would be patrolling our town regularly for a while, and we had to lay low. We all nodded in agreement.
Pokers added that we could use the Shittiest Pizza Joint marquee. It was at the north end of town, the parking lot lights turn off when the joint is closed, and everyone would be watching the churches for activity. We all just looked at one another for a short time before Enema said that was a bastard of an idea. Hammy reiterated that we should wait a week or two for things to calm down. He was right. The town was strung so tight that any vibration would snap the line, and hell would crash down upon this half-of-a-horse town. I said it may take longer depending on how fast Carl could get those letter tiles in. We left Hammy’s with the agreement to meet in three days back at the barn to go over our next, and final, phase. I reminded them that the last stage is the most delicate of all. This is when things go all fucko and solid teams start to crack. Everyone agreed that we would remain solid and see this through.
The next day I grabbed the circadian issue of the Findlay Courier to discover we made the front page. It had a circulation of fifty-five thousand, so the front page was rather meaningless outside of our county. In bold letters the headlines read, “Religious Leaders Under Attack.” I felt the title lacked a certain luster needed to seize attention, but then again, I wasn’t the chief editor of a small town paper. The article danced on the issue of our messages and the decomposing of society that verbally tarred and feathered their pious leaders. It delivered like an editorial high on sentiments, but depleted of facts. The article did have our marquee scrawlings in print, which I thought was a glorious idea and one I wish I had thought of at the commencement of our plans. Vowel’s peculiar use of the English language would be immortalized throughout Northwest Ohio. Good for him. I put the paper down and decided my first act of the day would be to pay a visit to Carl to see what the new addition to his wall would be.
Carl was working on an old Corvair that belonged to Mr. Cable when I walked in. Carl told me to grab his set of wrenches and lend him a hand. As I assisted in his surgery Carl told me that a town meeting at the Lutheran church would take place later that night to deliberate Mr. Riegel and his standing. He said that everyone in town was trying to figure out who put those messages up, and how they knew such sensitive information. Some people figured Painter Joe was the culprit, but they also knew Joe had no formal education beyond sixth grade. Carl said there was even talk of it coming from an outside source, someone from a neighboring town with a grudge against our quaint village. We both knew how absurd these rumors were, but Carl said he was enjoying listening to everyone’s ideas about the messages. I told Carl that I would be at the town meeting, and I would take notes for him since he would still be at the station. He thanked me and said the only person out and about the town tonight would be Painter Joe and his Silent Six. I told Carl he should have some hot water and ketchup ready in case they strolled past, but he said the last thing he wanted was to have Painter hanging out at his station yelling at discrete disciples all night long. We both laughed and I said goodbye to Carl.
Enema and I arrived at the Lutheran church to absorb the meeting, and the place was spilling over with people. I had never spent much time in that building, but I had also never seen it that crowded. All the pews were densely packed, and people were standing in the wings. Some of the folks brought their own chairs. Enema said that if a fire broke out we would all be ashes and the only people left to repopulate this town would be a boob crazed man and a half-wit with six invisible friends. Not a reassuring thought. Pastor Freed walked up to the pulpit and announced that the meeting would begin. My attention was distracted by the stained glass windows on both sides of the sanctuary. Each one was a picture of the twelve apostles. I quickly tapped Enema and told him I knew where Painter Joe’s friends came from. Joe thinks that his group is half of the disciples pictured around this building. I went through the names and pointed out who was roaming with Painter. In a way, it made sense to me, especially after his monologue the other day that went over live television. Enema told me to focus my attention on the meeting and stop worrying about Painter Joe.
In the meeting, Mr. Riegel had admitted to his affairs in Fort Wayne and that he would no longer be a leader in the congregation. Enema said that Mr. Riegel had plagiarized a page from Jimmy Swaggart’s playbook on tearful remorse. The votes were cast, and it was decided that Mr. Riegel was to officially step down from his one Sunday a month lecture, and his name would be taken off the elders list. The congregation agreed that Mr. Riegel could stay at the church as long as he wanted to, but his leadership roles were at an end. Mrs. Riegel and her two children sat quietly in the front row. She was asked if she would like to address the town, and she declined. The meeting lasted a total of one hour, and it was then adjourned with everyone silently filing out of the building. Two weeks after the meeting, Mr and Mrs. Riegel filed for divorce on account of infidelity, and Mrs. Riegel was granted damn near everything. Mrs. Riegel remained in our little town and remarried a wonderful man, while her husband moved away and never returned. I’d like to think Mr. Riegel found happiness in his life afterwards, but I’ll never know.
The next day, all of us gathered at Hammy’s barn to christen McStone’s Jedi bong. McStone packed it full of his Obi-Weed-Kenobi, and on every toke the bong made the sound of a light saber slashing through the air. Enema said that this shit made your eyes hemorrhage and your mouth feel like stale crackers. It was high octane ganja, and McStone was beaming with pride. When Vowels finished his coughing fit, he said he had the perfect idea for our last message. It was a grandiose idea, and after listening to it, I brought Vowels back to reality by reminding him that we were a group of seven. His idea called for a militia of bastards, and we couldn’t afford to bring anyone else into our group. Pokers said that he knew two people he trusted enough to help us. I asked who they were, and Hammy answered with Uncle Peppercorn and his nephew Gravy Boat. Gravy Boat is the small town, token, fat kid. He never leaves home without a salami sandwich tucked into his back pocket. Uncle Peppercorn is really Gravy’s uncle, but the oddness is that Gravy is one year older than his uncle. A faulty condom is where Peppercorn’s parents place the blame. No one is sure how Uncle Peppercorn got his name, but it is a damned good name.
Enema said we could trust both of them, and Spoons agreed. I still thought we were way too baked to make a solid resolution on this, and that we had better think it over until tomorrow. Vowels reminded us that it was McStone’s Amelia Bedelia stash that instigated this whole mess in the first place. McStone added he missed that stash. I was stumped and out of rebuttals. I told Pokers he and Hammy would be in charge of asking Gravy and his uncle if they would like to play along with us. Pokers said he would, and added that Uncle Peppercorn had a police scanner in his truck, and that could come in handy for us. This was sounding more and more like a good idea. I told the group that Boutwell talks to Carl every now and then, and maybe Carl could find out what frequency Boutwell runs his radio on. I grabbed the Jedi bong and Vowel’s butane lighter, and told everyone that tomorrow night we’d add to our numbers and go over Vowel’s idea to make sure we could pull off the last bastardly message. I’m sure some funny shit took place that night, but the force of Obi-Weed-Kenobi knocked my memory loose of the rest of that evening.