Blood Rust Chains

by Marco Etheridge

  Chapter 5

  James

  He cringed as the ratty Honda squeezed up next to his beloved Saab. James had been waiting for this moment, the chance to actually catch that scruffy asshole parking his piece of shit car so close to James’ perfect 900 Turbo. Excellent timing on the garbage run. He dropped the lid on the dumpster and stalked out into the wet parking lot. He reached the front of his beautiful Saab before the driver could wiggle out of the tiny space between the two vehicles.

  “A word Mr. Boyd, if you don’t mind?” James blocked Quinn’s path, assuming his best authoritative stance. He had perfected this pose during many years as a high school teacher. The older man’s clean shaven chin jutted out, ready for combat. His close-cropped grey hair stood straight up from his scalp, daring any rain to fall on it.

  “Oh, hello James. Um, sure. Discommodious. That’s a good word for a rainy day, don’t you think?”

  “Not funny Mr. Boyd. I know we’ve discussed this several times, but I don’t seem to be getting through to you. Could you please not park so close to my Saab? It’s a classic automobile and I don’t want it scratched.” James crossed his arms across his chest.

  “Well, first off James, Mr. Boyd was my father. If you want to have a chat with him, he’s planted down at River View cemetery. Feel free to visit him, since no one else does. You can call me Quinn or Neighbor, your choice. Secondly, I don’t know what subject you taught in high school all those years, but it must not have been geometry. If you look at my car, you’ll notice that it is equidistant between those two faded white lines. I try to be really careful near your car. I know how important it is to you. You have to get over this. The spaces in this parking lot are tiny.”

  “Again, I would ask you not to park so close to my Saab. There is, of course, the other issue that we have discussed, namely your cigar smoking.” James wasn’t letting this guy off the hook that quickly. Not this time.

  “James, look, this isn’t a discussion, it’s more you being a whiny neighbor. Yeah, we’ve talked about the cigar issue before and there is no issue. I smoke on my balcony, or on the roof of the building. You live all the way over on the other side of the building. Isn’t there someone on your side of the building that you can be annoyed at?”

  There were lots of people in the damn building that James could be annoyed at, but none more than Quinn Boyd. “How do your neighbors stand the stench of those things? Why do I have to bring it up when their balcony is directly above yours? Surely they must have complained to you about the smoke. I can’t believe how inconsiderate you smokers are, and cigar smokers worse than any.” James could, in fact, sometimes get the faintest hint of Quinn’s cigar smoke if the wind was just right and he leaned out over his balcony railing. He shouldn’t have to tolerate that crap. The smell of the dumpster and the reek of dog shit on the parking strip out front was more than enough to deal with.

  “What, you think the Rasta trust-fund babies are going to complain about smoke?” Quinn was actually laughing out loud. “They live in a constant haze of ganga. The only time they lean over the balcony is to invite me up for a bong load. According to them, cigars are organic, so everything is cool.” Quinn smirked at James, which pissed him off even more.

  Those retard neo-hippies were another problem James was going to have to deal with. Carbon copies of each other, it was like three different idiots dipped in the same organic cotton stupid bath. How did they keep those dreadlock tangles clean? If it wasn’t that one kid was white, one kid Asian, and one kid Black, there would be no way to tell them apart. But that was a problem for later. Right now it was this smug bastard that he had to deal with. The conversation was not going the way James had envisioned. He was used to people backing down. Okay, if the kid wanted to play rough, he could play rough.

  “I think I will have to bring this smoking problem to the attention of the building management.” There, that would rattle the punk. James was less than pleased when the punk started laughing again.

  “James, I don’t know where you think we’re living, but I’ve got a news flash for you. We don’t have building management, we have a slum lord. We live on the very edge between hipsterville Northwest Portland and the shiny new Pearl. And as soon as the Pearl District pushes just a little bit closer, that slum lord is either going to sell this heap of brick or try to turn it into condos. Either way, we’re all going to be out on our asses. And, by the way, the slum lord bastard’s name is Lewis and he smokes cigars, big smelly cigars.”

  For James, the thought of the building going condo was a dream come true. It couldn’t happen soon enough. Yeah, you pathetic scribbler, you and all of the other slackers in the building might be out on your asses, but I will be moving to a top floor condo and good riddance to you sorry trash. James was fed up with trying to reason with this clown. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

  “I’m telling you Mr. Boyd, if I find so much as a smudge on my Saab, I’m going to assume you did it. I’ll haul you into small claims court so fast you won’t know what happened. And another thing, I’ve read some of your articles. They’re shit.”

  Quinn wasn’t laughing anymore. He looked at James long and hard before he spoke again. “You know James, hypothetically speaking, if a man had a few old friends out in Felony Flats, he could make a single phone call and before you could say Pippi Longstockings, there would be a large empty space filling the spot a thirty year old Swedish car used to inhabit. Now I’d appreciate it if you would let me pass. Neighbor.”

  James could feel the heat on his face steaming away the misty rain. He wanted this punk to be angry, wanted to get a rise out of him. These Gen-X pieces of shit, what did they know about anything? This one was an irresponsible twit just like all the others. No real job, no sense of anything greater than today, no values. Generation X, Y, Z, Millenniums, he had tried to teach them all. Worthless to the core, each succeeding batch of them more worthless than the one before it. Most of them couldn’t find their asses with both hands, much less any concept greater than the next TV show or electronic gadget. What a waste, he thought. Thirty-five years I devoted to teaching these losers. This scruffy fuck standing in front of me is a product of that noble effort. What a goddamn waste.

  “Are you threatening me? How dare you?” James hated talking to someone’s back, but the little prick was walking away from him. He watched as Quinn stopped and turned to face him. That’s better, thought James. But it wasn’t better. The bastard was smiling at him, just standing there in the rain, smiling like the ignorant hipster that he was.

  “Nope, I am not threatening you James, even though you offered to make me responsible for anything that happens to that yuppie relic of yours. What I’m doing is promising you something. I promise you that if you do anything weird or unneighborly, a couple of meth-heads will make a trip up here from south of Powell. They’ll be driving a beat-up Chevy Impala. You might get their plate number, but it won’t matter since the plate will be as hot as the car. Those guys will have your rig fired up and gone so fast the noise of it won’t have a chance to disturb your dreams. These two upstanding gentlemen will then take your precious Saab out to some chop shop in an alley off of Southeast 82nd. After they strip it, but before they set it on fire, they’re going to paint that Swedish piece of crap pepto-bismol pink. I expect they will use a stolen iPhone to shoot video of the whole happy bonfire and then post it on YouTube. I’ll make sure that the hacker who steals your account information leaves a link to the video so you can watch it. Now, is there anything else you want to discuss with me? I thought not. Nice talking with you Jim.” Quinn turned and walked away.

  James could not believe his ears, could not believe that this asshole was just walking away from him. And the son of a bitch called him Jim. Oh, this wasn’t over, this wasn’t over by a long shot. He watched Quinn’s back disappearing through the door of the building.

  Chapter 6

  Ancestors

  Quinn was almost giddy by the time he reached the door of his
apartment. Hey-Zeus, Bucko, that look on his face when you called him ‘Jim,’ I thought he was going to stroke out right there and then. What a pathetic excuse for a neighbor. Criminy, thought Quinn, what the hell would he have been like as a teacher? Every kid’s worst nightmare. And every school had at least one. Who was the worst old martinet during his high school years? Brighton, yeah, Mr. Brighton. He and old Jim would have gotten on really well. Brighton had a thing for cars as well if he remembered correctly. That’s right, the crusty bastard’s car got boosted after he got a little too draconian with a few of the tough kids. Quinn was shaking his head and laughing as he slipped the key into the door of apartment 302. It would be worth having their phone numbers. He was still chuckling when he closed the door.

  Screw that sanctimonious prick. No more Mr. nice-guy. If the high and mighty James Watson wanted his precious car protected from the scuttling beetles of the proletariat, he could bloody well stash it in a garage. Let him spend some of his dough on secure parking and leave me the hell alone. Cheap bastard. There was damn sure no free parking in Northwest Portland, and often no parking at all. Yeah, let the old fart part with some of the money he made torturing high school kids.

  Quinn found himself grinning again. Damn, but didn’t a good direct confrontation feel better than any lame effort at appeasement? You know it does, Bub. It’s the difference between being a Chamberlain and a Churchill. Besides, Churchill had some of the best quotes in history, even if he was half in the bag most evenings. No one remembered anything of Chamberlain, unless it was ‘Yes, Herr Hitler’ or ‘No, Herr Hitler.’ But Churchill, that was a different kettle of fish. ‘Yes, I am drunk. But in the morning I shall be sober and you will still be disgustingly ugly.’ Great stuff, regardless of whether old Winston stole the line, or even said it at all.

  Above the press of dark clouds, night was coming on. Quinn puttered around in the cave in an attempt to sort through some of his ideas for the article, but he soon gave it up. Sonya was working late and then heading to dance class. Afterwards, she would go home to her fancy condo, so Quinn was on his own. Rummaging through his cramped refrigerator, he found the remaining third of a leftover pizza. Ah yeah, breakfast of champions, and what’s better than breakfast for dinner. He fetched a bottle of mineral water and tossed his dinner onto the coffee table, and himself onto the couch.

  The couch served as Quinn’s dining room, thinking place, and media viewing center. Reading was done across the room in the big leather easy chair by the balcony doors. Quinn loved his apartment, and he loved the building. He even loved the neighborhood he so enjoyed bitching about. As he dug into the first slice of cold pizza, Quinn could hear the dull sounds of some kind of Afro-Roots music thumping from 402. Hey, the trust fund babies are awake and ready to rock. Must be wake ’n bake bong time. Quinn lifted his bottle of mineral water in mock salute. Enjoy, Boyos! Fishing into his messenger bag, Quinn pulled out the MP3 recorder and thumbed a few tiny buttons. The interview with Susan began to play. Adjusting the volume against the noise of the neighbors, he placed the recorder on the table and listened as he ate.

  The rain was gone in the morning, but Quinn was not awake enough to notice. Not before the second cup of stout black coffee did he recognize that a weak sun was battling with the last of the clouds. How did those poor early morning bastards do it? Quinn remembered the Old Man clomping down the stairs at o’dark-thirty in the morning. Every working day, no matter how hungover he was, clomp-clomp-clomp, not even light outside. Moms was already up before him, like a ghost, slipping downstairs to make sure the coffee was perking, starting breakfast, and packing the Old Man’s lunch pail. It wasn’t until after he thumped across the wooden porch and down the front stairs that Moms would come upstairs, trying to rouse Quinn from his sleep. ‘Time for school sleepy-head,’ she would say, rumpling his hair, ‘Time to wake up and meet another wonderful day.’

  Quinn felt the miracle of caffeine prying open the rusty hinges of his brain. He popped open the laptop and started through his emails. Amongst the usual junk, there was another message from Susan.

  Hey Big Brother,

  I really had fun yesterday. It was good to see you and good to have some information that was useful. Speaking of which, here is something that I just got this morning from back east. I’ve been in contact with these folks for some time. I think you are really going to be interested in this. It’s like we have a whole truckload of dirt in our family tree. Sorry, no presidents or queens yet.

  Love,

  Susan

  Quinn opened the attachment and began reading. The rest of his coffee went cold and unnoticed.

  Excerpt from Graham County Historical Society

  Interview with Zackery Stoneking, circa 1928

  I expect your wondering about my father and what happened on our farm back during the war between the states. My daddy has gone to his reward, sad to say, but he lived a good life and he was a good man. Now that he’s laid in the ground and at rest, I don’t reckon he would mind if I tell the whole story. He was never ashamed of what he done. This all goes back a good ways, so I hope you can grant me some patience.

  Jebidiah Stoneking was my daddy. He had a full section of land from his daddy, my granddaddy. The farm was northwest out of the village of Chestnut Grove. Still is, matter of fact, and still in the family. Two of my brothers work that land along with their families. I left the farm to go off soldiering. I spent most of my time out west during some of the Indian Wars and then in the Spanish-American War as well. It was a tough life, but I was never cut out for being a farmer. No shame in it, that’s for sure, but it just didn’t suit me. I was on the farm until I turned twenty years of age. Jeb, everyone called him Jeb, my daddy encouraged me to head out west. I think he recognized the restlessness in my nature. Jeb had a good eye for folks and what made them tick. I guess I should use his name for the rest of this story, otherwise things might get confused.

  My Granddaddy came from the north, came down from Iowa. It was him that got the section of land that became the family farm. Jeb, my daddy, he was born on that land just like I was. Jeb was born about 1835, not too many years after his daddy got that land. I don’t expect they kept that close of a watch on the dates and such back then. Whichever year it was, Jeb settled on 1835 and was happy with that.

  The family, they were northerners, like I said. A good part of Missouri was settled by southerners. That mix of southern and northern would lead to the troubles that came about before the war between the states. Fact is, that trouble was a good part of the cause for that damned war, pardon my language. You being historical folks, you will know all about the Missouri Compromise and all of the trouble that followed. The truth of it is we had our own war right there in Missouri afore the real war got started. Bloody Kansas was the name folks give to the territory west of us and that name was rightly earned. Pro-Slavery ruffians were fighting the Anti-Slavery folks, each of them trying to cast the future for whether Kansas would become a free state or a slave state. The fifties (ed. Note: reference is to the period of the 1850’s) was a bloody time there in Missouri and Kansas. Neighbor turned against neighbor, town against town. John Brown, he was raising Holy Hell down there, and them border ruffians, they were giving as good as they got. Yes sir, it was a bloody time indeed.

  Now I will tell you truly, Jebidiah Stoneking held no patience for slavery. That is a fact. He was a good Lutheran and a God-fearing man. He raised his children the same way and we all took it to heart. That upbringing was a benefit to me in later years. Out west, I served with some of those Buffalo Soldiers, the black men that ended up in the US Calvary. I will tell you Sir, you would have to search high and low to find braver men than those. God’s truth.

  Jeb had even less patience with outsiders. He was a man who helped his neighbors, attended his church, and worked his land. All that man asked for from the Lord or anyone else was to be left alone to work his land. That is what he loved. I do not believe I ever met a man on this earth who
loved farming more than my daddy. The land was in him, if you get my meaning. The land was in him and he was in that land. By this time, by the time of them hard troubles, both his daddy and his mother were laid in that ground, buried right there on the farm where they still are today. And now Jeb is taking his rest right next to them.

  I was just born before the trouble came to a head, that being in 1860. I’m an old man now, but I was just a baby then. The troubles and fighting swirled around the state, first here and then there. It was nothing like a real war, with battle lines and opposing forces. Up until the Battle of Wilson’s Creek, it was just fighting here and fighting there. No one ever knew where or when the shooting would start. In them early years, Chestnut Grove had been spared most of the troubles, but that would soon change. Springfield is not but 35 miles from here. That is where they fought that first big battle. That was a long ways back in those days, further than a man and a horse could travel in one day. As it turns out, it was not far enough. Nowhere was.

  The real war between the states started with the succession, of course. Missouri was supposed to be a neutral state, but that was a lie. There were state troops training for the south, the Confederacy, and Union troops marching into the state. They met up near Springfield at the Battle of Wilson’s Creek, in 1861 that was. That battle is not so well known these days, but it was the second major battle of the war and a loss for the Union. Those Union troops, they bloodied those southern boys pretty good, but the Union was forced from the field and it was called a Confederate victory, which I guess it was.