Anthony David Jacques

“Jesus Christ. It’s two days before Christmas.”

Lou spins the cap back down on a red plastic thermos, snorts and spits out the open window of the cab and shrugs into his coveralls that had been bunched up around either side of his ass during the drive over.

Brandon tosses the clipboard onto the dash, “But it’s a blood bank. At a church.”

Unfazed, Lou stuffs his scarf down into his collar, zips the coveralls the rest of the way up and opens the door.

“Then they ought to have money for a cab.”

In the rear view mirror, Brandon’s eyes trace the unnaturally punctuated trail that the couple’s walkers left in the new fallen snow. The banks on either side are almost waist high.

Lou’s voice disappears around the side of the truck, “I love handicapped parking spots. God damn, so much room…” then the truck jolts and the flatbed begins to lift up and the rear view mirror goes black. The whine of the flatbed’s gears are loud enough, Brandon is almost unable to hear himself say, “What a way to spend Christmas break.”

In the side mirror he finds Lou lighting a cigarette with one hand while the other works the levers to lift, tilt and lower the bed, sliding it up behind the sedan.

Lou makes eye contact, glances at his wrist, which means to get a move on. Brandon pulls his hat down and gets to work, mumbling “I don’t believe in karma, I don’t believe in karma” while Lou sardonically growls through his own version of Have Yourself a Merry Fucking Christmas.

With the car now up on the flatbed, they’re working the chains beneath the rear axle and neither of them hear the church doors open. Then a hunched shadow silhouetted beneath the poorly lit awning shouts, “Hey, they’re stealing the car!” and the door rattles shut.

Both men catch a glimpse of the figure as it darts left toward the side lot, then two others hobble toward the door from inside. One of them leans heavily on a cane but the other is running and blows through the doors, shouting, “Hey, hey you!”

Lou tosses the remaining chain onto the flatbed and says, “Good enough.”

Brandon’s already in the cab as Lou slips on the step, recovers and jumps in. The engine grinds into gear first and Lou stands on the gas, sending snow and blue curls of diesel fumes to wrap around the handicapped parking signs.

From between the signs, an old man is waving his cane and shouting, unheard over the diesel engine.

“Uh oh,” Lou chuckles, “looks like grandpa’s gonna whoop us now.”

What sounds like tires screeching echoes around the lot but it’s too hard to tell from which direction. Lou flicks the headlights on and aims for the exit when a blue pickup slides across the lane and stops, blocking them in. The man jumps out of the cab.

Brandon says, “So much for the getaway.”

Lou only laughs, “Fuck me, everybody’s got a cane.”

He hits the brake and looks in the side view, people are filing out of the building to watch. As the man from the blue pickup gets closer, his shoulders jolt unnaturally, sending out a ka-klack! that seems to make all the other noises fade away, inconsequential.

“That ain’t no cane.”

Lou straightens up in his seat, kills the headlights  and puts up his hands, notices Brandon is panicking, shouts, “Hands up, Brandon. Just do what I do and don’t say anything. Been through this before.”

After a couple seconds, time enough for the man with the gun to start moving around the cab, Brandon puts his hands up as well.

His cigarette hangs from his lip as the gunman taps the side mirror with the barrel of the shotgun.

Lou winks, ”Show down at the First Baptist Corral, eh Brandon?”

The man opens Lou’s door and motions for him to get out of the cab with the gun’s barrel.

“First of all, we’re Catholic. Now take this slow, son.” His accent places his upbringing somewhere near Texas, and his demeanor reminds Lou of the way a highway patrolman might call anyone son to establish dominance in a situation.

Brandon stays frozen while Lou, calm as ever, turns slowly in his seat and sneers, “Son? Hell, I’ve got kids your age. One of ‘em sitting right there.” He nods to Brandon.

“The kid stays put. You, get to putting that car down where it belongs.” Still pointing with the gun, now at his hip.

Lou shrugs, “Well how about you put the gun down, show of good faith and all that?”

The man steps back and pulls the butt of the shotgun to his shoulder again, “Let’s get moving.”

Lou backs toward the levers, considering how far that loose chain might reach if he slung it out toward the gunman. Would he even be fast enough, or would that just put Brandon in danger?

Lou decides to make conversation, bring his guard down, wait for an opening. ”So, what brings you up to Minnesota this time of year?”

“Just unhook the car.”

“I’m just saying, I’d put you in or around… Dallas.”

The gunman pauses, “Fort Worth.” The rifle doesn’t drop, but his right arms seems less tense.

Lou begins reaching under the car, one chain falls free with a clank. He works toward the back of the truck, where the loose chain is laying under the sedan’s front axel.

“Fort Worth, alright. Can’t imagine you’re here for the weather.”

“My folks are on hard times, so I’m up here to see them through it.”

“It’s a good thing to-”

“Just keep working.”

Lou grabs the end of the chain, begins pulling it through his hands, slowly measuring off what he figures is about three feet at a time as if it were rope, all the while estimating the distance between himself and the gunman.

He grips the chain in his right hand, the four and a half pound steel hook in the other. From the crowd a voice shouts, “Robert,” and the gunman’s eyes dart over his shoulder for a moment but when he looks back the hook is on its way.

The gun fires but Lou is already diving toward the man’s legs. One of the tire’s explodes on the sedan and sparks fly as the buckshot ricochets off the wheel arch and fender. The hook glances off the man’s forehead, he goes limp, and the shotgun skids across the lot as Lou crawls up to the man’s chest, grabbing for the chain, his mind racing for what to do next, but the man lies motionless on his back, out cold. Lou gets to his knees, clutching the large metal hook as he surveys the bruise forming on the gunman’s forehead. He shrugs and stands up.

The old man from the church shuffles from between two cars, still repeating, “Robert, Robert.”

Lou begins reeling in the chain, “He’ll be fine, old man. The car… well.” He nods to the scattering of dings and holes that cover most of the front fender.

The way the old man kneels down next to the gunman, Lou figures they’re related. Which might make this his car.

For a moment the only noise is the diesel engine churning and an occasional gust of wind. The man on the ground coughs, his eyes roll, but he’s alive. The old man crawls a few paces and reaches for the shot gun. Lou stiffens up and drops the chain, thinking, “Can’t clock an old man like that. Might kill ‘em.”

The old man shakes his head and turns back to his son, getting to his feet as people crowd closer, most asking if the gunman is alright, how’s he doing, how many fingers, a few people shouting curses at Lou.

The old man turns, gun hanging in the crook of his elbow. “You know, if you people didn’t call my wife all hours of the day, cussing and threatening the woman to tears, I’d have taken that damn car back to the bank months ago. You can,” he pauses, his face red, lips quivering, “You can all go to Hell for all I care. I’m doing a good thing here, trying to help keep this church together.”

Then a man in a casual blazer and priest’s collar pushes through the crowd, people now shouting at him what has happened, what should be done. He looks at Lou, then back to the man on the ground, the old man with the shotgun. He strokes his stubbled chin like it’s a photo opportunity for Philosopher’s Weekly, and eventually raises his hands, cufflinks glinting in the lamplight. The voices dwindle into silence.

Lou says, “Look, folks, I don’t work for the bank. I don’t make any phone calls or harass anyone.”

Someone in the back of the crowd yells, “Bullshit.” This seems to spark the old man’s anger. He runs his hand along the pattern in the wooden stock, his breathing now puffing out heavily.

“Easy now. I just pick up whatever cars need picking up, take them wherever they need taking. I don’t know a thing about your personal…” What? Issues? Problems? Too negative. “… personal lives. None of my business.”

The old man raises the shot gun, but the priest moves toward him, speaks quietly, smoothly. The man hands over the gun and the shouting tapers off again.

Lou straightens his collar, re-tucks his scarf, his voice quivering slightly.

“So… what do we do now?”

The priest raises the shotgun, pumping it once, twice, three times, emptying the shells onto the ground before he leans it against a parked car.

He nods to the old man, who reaches into his pocket and tosses over the keys.

The old man says, “Can’t imagine that thing’ll run all shot up like that anyway. Just take it and get on your way.”

Lou nods and stuffs the keys into his pocket, but before he can climb into the cab the priest approaches, “A moment of your time, my son.”

“Okay, shoot.” Lou winks to the old man.

“Now, I know you’re just doing your job. Truth is I didn’t even know they were behind until a couple of weeks ago. Eunice, that’s his wife, she always handles the money and she’s been getting forgetful lately. But then…”

“None of my business.” He fights the urge to call the priest “father” because to him, respect is something that must be earned.

“Well, anyway. I can’t imagine this is an easy job, especially this time of year.”

Lou clears his throat, “It’s honest work.”

“Sure, it must be done, but taking people’s cars, it can’t be easy. And especially now, during the holidays, well…”

Lou looks over to the spot marked RESERVED.

“Then I imagine you must feel the same way.”

The priest tilts his head, pushing his glasses up his nose a bit, “I’m sorry, I don’t-.”

“Is that your Beemer over there?”

“Uh…”

“That’s what I thought. How many of these,” Lou pats the pock-marked fender, “do you think that Beemer of yours might be worth?”

The priest furrows his eyebrows, taken aback, “I’m… doing the Lord’s work.” His eyes fall to the pavement, maybe waiting for some reassurance, maybe searching the new fallen snow for meaning. The wind whistles across the parking lot.

Lou takes advantage of the priest’s momentary reverie and jumps into the cab. He slams the door shut, addressing the priest through the open window.

“Well, so long as you’re doing the Lord’s work, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces.”

The truck’s transmission grinds into reverse, the beep-beep-beeping growing muffled as the window slides up.

“Alright, Brandon, where does this chariot of fire need to go?”

Brandon only says, “Shit,” under his breath then picks up the clipboard but can’t seem to make sense of it, of anything. Lou takes surface streets to the on ramp, waits until the click-clack of the uneven highway jostles Brandon back to reality.

“Ah, there we are.”

“Sorry, I’m still reeling, uh,” he flips two pages, a third, “Uh, take this west to 494, then,” his voice falters.

“Jesus, relax.” He takes stock of the look on Brandon’s face. “Okay, yes, I’ve been shot at before. No, I’ve still never been hit. I usually just show them this,” Lou smacks the glove box open and a .357 Magnum nearly falls into Brandon’s lap, “but with you in the cab, I figured I’d rather draw his attention elsewhere.”

“Holy shit.”

A moment passes in silence. The gun sits heavy in Brandon’s lap. He pushes it back into the glove box as quiet and calm as possible. A few more moments pass, the road click-clacks beneath the cab, Lou cracks a window and lights another cigarette.

“Never been shot at in front of a church, though. That was a first.”

They both laugh now. For Lou it’s just another story for the guys at O’Donnel’s, but for Brandon, the laughter helps to melt away much of the tension. He takes a deep breath, “So back there, you said…”

“Oh, now.”

“It’s just that, you’ve never told anyone I was your son.” And to himself, Brandon thinks, I’ve never called you dad, either. Something like resentment comes loose in Brandon’s chest, some of the smaller pieces seem to fall away like kicking salt and snow from a pair of boots. Almost inaudible over the sound of the cab, “But I guess you take care of mom, so…”

“Oh, now.” Lou busies himself checking the mirrors, the gauges, pats himself down like he’s looking for his cell phone or reading glasses, like he has anyone to call. Anything to read. He busies himself to avoid the proverbial Kodak moment, but it’s alright. Brandon grins with his face turned against the fogging glass.

A few miles later Lou sets the thermos between his legs and works at the cap which breaks free with a familiar squeak.

“Want me to pour that?”

“Yeah,” he hands Brandon the thermos.

“Rather you just focus on the road, you know what I mean? No need to go scalding your nuts.”

“More like thawing them out. Shit.”

They both chuckle, and after another moment, he says, “Makes you wonder. I mean, there’s only two businesses that do better when the economy goes to shit. Repossession and religion.”

Brandon thinks a moment, “You’re forgetting bars.”

“Hehehe, ain’t it the truth.”

Then Lou clicks on the radio, smiling and singing his vulgar alternate lyrics along with the Christmas carols as the truck rambles down 94 West, kicking up a light dusting of snow in its wake.

* * *

© Anthony David Jacques MMX