NOT AN AMERICAN

by Stanley W Rogouski

  "Why would anybody care who his sister is? Well yeah, when I first heard about it I thought he was working undercover for her organizing a union or something too. I don't see why a guy like that would want to work at WillyMart."

  "When you first heard about it?"

  She laughed.

  "I know everybody George."

  "Now you're just name dropping. I know a guy who's in the paper, so you knew him first. You're just like your father."

  "You want to bet?" she said, taking out her wallet. "Will you see him any time soon?"

  "I'm going to see him tonight."

  "Give him that," she said, handing Kozlowski one of her business cards. "Ask him if he knows me. If he does, tell him to drop by my apartment, any time he wants."

  "OK. I will," he said.

  "I guess everybody knows everybody in this shit town," she said, reaching over and fingering the rope that Kozlowski had just tired around the flag pole. "I wonder if you could do me another favor."

  "Sure. Anything you want."

  "Do you have any more rope?"

  Got a whole shed full of it. How much to you need?"

  "Enough to hog tie a six foot tall cop, wrap him up, and throw him in the trunk of my car, so I can dump him into the West Hill Mine Fire."

  Kozlowski laughed.

  "I just don't know when you're being serious sometimes."

  “About 20 feet I guess," she said. "My fire escape's been rattling, and it's been making me feel paranoid. I looked out the window and I know what it is, but I really don't want to climb down on it, so I thought if I looped a piece of rope around it and tied it down it will stop rattling."

  "Come on in back."

  She followed him into his back yard.

  "Do you see why your mother worries about you?" he said. "It's that neighborhood. It creeps me out. That harp. Jesus Christ that scares the every living shit out of me."

  "I love it," she said, looking at him take a set of keys out of a flower pot and open the door of the shed. "Why do you keep all your keys there?"

  "I'm always forgetting them."

  "Why lock the door at all then?"

  "Because I'll get robbed."

  "Won't someone just take the keys?"

  "No. They're hidden in plain sight."

  "What if someone finds them?"

  "Nobody will take them. This is a safe neighborhood. Everybody knows everybody else."

  "Then why lock the doors at all?"

  "We're going around in circles," he said, looping a long piece of rope around his arm, cutting a length of it off, and handing it to Cathy Chegoffgan. "I can give you some squirrel repellent too so they don't chew through it."

  "Thanks," she said, putting the rope over her shoulder, leaning over and hugging Kozlowski. "You're a real friend."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "Just make sure to take my mother to the dentist tomorrow. Don't let her talk you out of it."

  "I won't forget."

  “Thanks. And tell that guy to call when you see him."

  "I'm going to see him tonight. I'll tell him."

  "Thanks. And tell him I'm sorry about yesterday."

  Chapter 18 - Fired

  That same evening, John Avellanos got fired.

  Bob Yapper tapped him on the shoulder in the locker room, and called him into the office. When Avellanos tried to sit down, Yapper indicated that he should remain standing. Yapper walked behind his desk, sat down, put his elbows on the table, and looked up.

  "I suppose you know why you're here."

  "I've been keeping an eye on George Kozlowski just like you told me."

  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go."

  "For what?"

  Avellanos knew why he was being fired.

  Yapper threw a copy of the newspaper, turned to page 11, on the desk.

  "Even though he's been in town for less than a year," he read, "Mr. Ruiz does not mince words when it comes to Mayor Catalinelli. Michael Catalinelli is a vile cancer and a racist hate monger, the young bomb thrower, the spitting image of his late father, remarked during an interview on Reagan Plaza. He also wonders why conservatives, who he refers to as being in general less intelligent than liberals, would get so upset over a trivial little thing like burning a flag. This reporter, he believes, has sold his miserable rotten soul to the man."

  "So I guess the First Amendment doesn't apply to WillyMart."

  "You violated the rule against outside political activity."

  "How?"

  "You mentioned us during your little interview."

  "I did?"

  Yapper picked the paper back up and read.

  "In spite of Mr. Catalinelli's suspicion that I'm a conservative, and your insinuations that I'm a wild eyed, flag burning radical, I'm actually pretty dull. All I really want to do is go to my job at WillyMart every day and mind my own business."

  "Do you know how hard it is to get a job in this town?" Avellanos said.

  "You should have thought about that before you started doing interviews with the press like you were the goddamned President of the United States," Yapper said. "It's not my call anyway. The store manager got a personal visit from the district vice president."

  Avellanos looked over at the door to see two armed security guards. They were both wearing Tasers. One of them had his hand on his gun.

  "Can I go out and say goodbye to everybody?"

  "No you cannot. You have to leave immediately, and we have a restraining order banning you from the store for the next 6 months."

  "You're kidding?"

  "After these men escort you off the premises, you will be arrested for trespassing if you come back inside."

  "You're serious?"

  "What are you, retarded?" Yapper screamed at Avellanos. "Get him out of here," he screamed at the two guards. "What the fuck are you waiting for?"

  The two guards led Avellanos out of the office and back into the locker room, where they gave him 5 minutes to change back into his street clothes, then took him down the main hallway to payroll, where he given a receipt for the uniform and his last 3 days pay. After one of the guards, with whom Avellanos had a nodding acquaintance, apologized for the way he was being treated, Avellanos mentioned that he had left a magazine and a t-shirt out on the loading dock. The two guards decided that he should be allowed to retrieve all of his possessions, and agreed to take him "if he was quick about it."

  George Kozlowski was waiting for him on the loading dock.

  "I was afraid of this."

  "Assholes," Avellanos said, picking up his T-shirt. "I feel like beating the crap out of Bob."

  "Give me a call some time," Kozlowski said, handing him a business card.

  "I've already got your business card."

  "That's not mine. That's the girl I told you about. You saw her picture in my truck. Now that you have the time, I think you two would hit it off."

  "You're not only introducing her to a guy who works at WillyMart. You're introducing her to a guy who was fired by WillyMart."

  The expression on his face changed.

  "So I was right. Cathy Chegoffgan. You did know her father."

  "Only real friend I ever had. She said she knows you."

  "So was her idea to give me this or was it yours?"

  "Hers."

  "I know her. Please. Be specific about this. Did she give you that card before or after the article came out in the newspaper?"

  "This morning."

  "So before? Or after?"

  "After. I showed her the article, said I knew you, then, just to show me up, she said she had already met you. She gave me this, and told me to tell you that should come over to her place any time you wanted. She said something about being sorry about yesterday."

  "Thanks," Avellanos said, suddenly breaking out in a smile that seemed wildly inappropriate for a man who was being led off the site of his former employer under guard. "I'll call you."

  "Get some sleep," Kozlowski
said.

  "Come on," the friendly but impatient guard said, pushing Avellanos. "Let's go."

  The guards led Avellanos around to the front of the building. When he pointed at the bus stop and asked if he could wait there for the bus, he was informed that yes, he could. They showed him where city property began and WillyMart property ended. One guard drew an imaginary line on the concrete with his foot.

  "As of now. If you cross that line you will be arrested."

  "Thanks," Avellanos said, still looking at the business card and smiling. "Thanks."

  Chapter 19 – A reunion

  John Avellanos took the Number 81 back downtown, getting off on Reagan Plaza North. He walked past Scahentoarrhonon Station, and continued through Little Mexico, looking up at the First Presbyterian Church on the East Poison Springs bluff above Route 1081, watching the last few glimmers of daylight illuminate the towering white steeple as he walked along. It was already starting to get dark when he cleared Little Mexico, and entered River Gardens. He stopped when he noticed the shadow of the metal harp on Gibbon Street.

  "I'm a Satanic little bitch who lives in a harp factory," he remembered Cathy Chegoffgan saying the week before.

  He had not realized she had meant it literally. He crossed River Street to the front entrance of the Aeolian Harp Building, checked the business card to make sure he had the right address, and looked around for a bell. Finding none, he checked his pockets for the cell phone he didn't have before he finally decided just to walk up to the second floor. He knocked. He put his ear to the door, sensed movement inside, and knocked again. He knocked a third time, then a fourth, the anger over getting fired and the way she had blown him off on Sunday unconsciously becoming a loud, persistent banging, but there was still no answer. He went back down to the street, intending to walk the 6 blocks to Scahentoarrhonon Station to look for a pay phone, but the aluminum harp, and the play of shadow and light on River Street made him hesitate. He turned around, then looked up at the fire escape on the second floor. A silhouette moved behind the drapes. Was she trying to make a fool out of him? Maybe she had just been in the shower, or asleep. He walked back up to the second floor. The door was open. She must have been in the shower after all. He walked inside without bothering to knock, but no sooner did he step over the threshold than he tripped over a chair, and came crashing down to the floor, clutching his knee in pain. Horrified, he realized that someone had looped a rope around his ankles, and pulled it tight, preventing him from getting up. He felt the barrel of a gun pressed up against his temple as a hand grabbed the hair on the back of his head.

  "You listen to me Quinn," a voice said. "You come into my apartment again, and I will kill you."

  "I'm sorry,” he shouted. "I'm sorry. I have the wrong apartment. My name's not Quinn. Please don't kill me."

  John Avellanos felt the barrel of the gun pull away from his temple. The hand released his hair. The knee that was buried in his side was pulled back, and the rope was uncoiled from around his ankles. Someone switched on the light, and he looked up to see Cathy Chegoffgan walk over and put 38-caliber revolver on the table. She came back, picked up the rope, which had been tied to a thick metal pipe, and threw it in the corner behind the door. She extended one hand, then the other, and pulled him to his feet with both. She stood on her toes and put her mouth up to his ear.

  "You idiot," she screamed. "Do know how loud you knocked?"

  John Avellanos looked down at Cathy Chegoffgan. She was wearing a gray pair of sweats, and a white T-shirt. Her hair was disheveled. Had she just woken up? Around her neck, she wore the sharp, rusty piece of chair leg he had noticed her wearing the day before. He looked over at the windows. One of the drapes had been pulled open, and the streetlights, now illuminated, threw the shadow of the aluminum harp on the floor. He noticed the wall covered with photographic prints. As much as it piqued his curiosity, he also realized just how loudly he had knocked, how angry he still was over getting fired. It had been a mistake to come over to her apartment right after work. He decided to go. But no sooner did he turn to leave then she picked his messenger bag up off the floor, tossed it on the table next to the old revolver, stepped in front of him, blocked his way, closed the door and locked the deadbolt.

  "Now that you almost got shot, you might as well stay now," she said.

  Avellanos walked over to the table, and took the waterproof plastic envelope out of his messenger bag. He put it down on the table. He picked up the old revolver, opened the chamber, held it up to his face, and spun it around. She followed him over, and snatched it away.

  "It wasn't even loaded," he said.

  She turned her free hand over and rapped him on the head with her knuckles.

  "Neither is your brain."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Think next time," she said.

  "You should actually never pull a gun on a man you're not ready to kill," he said. "If you have some crazy ex-boyfriend who's stalking you tell me who he is. I'll go talk to him."

  "I don't have a boyfriend," she said, "current or ex. I told you that."

  She burst out laughing, bringing both her hands down on both of his shoulders, and reveling in how tall and well-built he was. That her booby trap had brought down a man more or less the same size as Steve Quinn had suddenly filled her with confidence. The irritable, paranoid mood that had weighed her down since her arrest seemed to vanish all at once. She walked back, put the old revolver under the futon, came back and punched him in the arm.

  "OK bodyguard," she said. "I accept your offer. Let's protect me from yourself. Tomorrow, whether you like it or not, we're going to go down to WillyMart and get you a cell phone."

  "Then I'll go to jail," he said.

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I just got fired," he said. "They escorted me out under an armed guard. They banned me from the property for the next six months."

  "So George was right."

  "How do you know George Kozlowski?" he said.

  "How do I know George Kozlowski? I've known George Kozlowski all my life. How do you know George Kozlowski?"

  Avellanos, who had been looking at her gallery of photographs out of the corner of his eye the entire time, walked across the main room over to the wall.

  "Do you have any photos of him here?" he said.

  "No photos of George," she said. "He hates having his photo taken."

  "He did tell me this was a dangerous neighborhood."

  "It's not."

  "Then why did you booby trap your door? Why do you have a gun?"

  "Everybody in this town has a gun. The more appropriate question would be why did you knock so loud you almost broke down my door?"

  “I don't know my own strength sometimes," he said. "I was pissed about Sunday I guess, but I guess it's my fault. I should have known you were still pissed off about getting thrown in jail. I'm a self-centered asshole I guess."

  "We all are. Do you want a drink?"

  "Sure why not?" he said. "I just got my ass kicked by a girl."

  "I'm sure it's not the first time."

  "Maybe George should get his friend to hire you as a bouncer instead of me."

  "I can't be a bouncer. I like to get drunk too much"

  She went into the kitchen while John Avellanos continued looking up and down row after row of 8 x 10 portraits, un-cropped square portraits, and larger, 16 x 20 landscapes. He unhooked the corner of the drape that had been pinned up against the wall, and revealed another block of portraits, frowning when he saw the two photos of Dan Sedgwick, but nodding his head when he noticed the portrait of himself she had made in the food court at Scahentoarrhonon Station." He noticed a portrait of David Sherrod near the statue of Jon L. Lewis and a photo of a group of children splashing around in the water of the Franklin B. Gowen Memorial fountain circle.

  Cathy Chegoffgan came back out with a bottle of Bombay Gin and two glasses, and set them down on the desk.

  "You're right," he said, going ba
ck to his own portrait. "Those camera phones are pretty good."

  "Have a drink," she said, handing him a glass of gin, which he rejected.

  "First, I need to tell you some things about myself."

  "So tell me," she said, putting the glass back down on the desk.

  "This is not my sister," he said, pointing at a photo of Elizabeth Felton she had taken in the lobby of the Reagan Center.

  "I know that."

  "How do you know?"

  “I know your real name," she said, picking up the copy of Romeo and Juliet and taking out the bookmark. Your father's name is Oscar Avellanos. I have no idea who your mother is but I know it wasn't Nicholas Felton."

  Cathy Chegoffgan picked the glass of gin up off the desk and held it in his direction.

  "I got this good stuff as a birthday present. I'm sharing it with you. Drink."

  Avellanos walked over to the table and reached into the waterproof plastic envelope. He came back with the wallet sized photo of himself and the other young man he carried with him wherever he went. He tacked it up on the wall next to the big poster sized print of the West Hill Coal breaker that she had showed him in Scahentoarrhonon Station.

  Cathy Chegoffgan craned her neck to get a better look. She took the tiny print off the wall, turned it over, and examined the time stamp on the back. The date had been rubbed off, but you could still tell that it had been taken at the old Polaroid photo booth at WillyMart. She turned it over again, and continued to look at the image. Avellanos himself had medium length hair and a five o'clock shadow. The other man, who had longer hair, and who looked to be a few years older, was wearing a yellow knit hat decorated with green ducks. She tacked the tiny print up directly on top of her own photo, right next to the image of the green and yellow hat on the pile of debris in front of the West Hill Coal Breaker. She turned around.

  "Holy fuck."

  "That's what I said when I first saw him."

  Avellanos tacked his driver's license up next to the photo.

  "Martin James Ruiz," it read, "DOB: November 23, 1983. Height: 6'0". Eyes: Blue."

  "That's Elizabeth Felton's real brother?"

  "Yes."