"So that's where you worked for 3 years?"
"Yes."
"For free?"
"Yes."
“Are you going to file a lawsuit?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"I'll tell you when we get to San Francisco."
"I thought we were going to Los Angeles."
"We'll go there first."
"Can you tell me there?"
"Nope."
"Why not."
"I can only tell you on the Golden Gate Bridge."
“I don't know if you can walk on the Golden Gate Bridge or not."
"I can walk anywhere I damn well please."
"You know, big liberal cities are not all they're cracked up to be. I lived in Boston for 4 years. I lived in New York. I grew up in the Federal District. They all suck, overpriced, overcrowded, polluted shit holes full of rich people who need to be lined up against the wall and shot after the revolution."
"Mexico City's liberal?"
"Yeah. They have gay marriage."
"I didn't know that. Poison Springs doesn't have gay marriage."
"Why would you care?"
"If you wind up turning me into a lesbian, I want to know I have the option of becoming a dyke. California has gay marriage, right?"
"Yep."
"That's where we're going."
Chapter 23 - The white elephant
Now that it's been demolished, it's difficult to imagine just how much of an eyesore the gigantic, unfinished shopping mall at Winterborn II had been. Instead of the peaceful stretch of grassland on either side of the small stream running parallel to Route 1081, there was an ugly monument to waste, mismanagement, and incompetence. People new to Poison Springs, or just driving by on Route 1081, could be forgiven for wondering why a huge pile of shoddy building materials had just been dumped along the side of the road, as if some titanic junkyard had been transported by magic from the New Jersey Meadowlands to the Winterborn County.
Even people who had lived in Poison Springs all their lives sometimes forgot why it had ever gone up in the first place, a luxury Mayor Michael Catalinelli didn't have. He had given the Winterborn II Corporation permission to build the project on city land in 2007, only to be left holding the bag for the cleanup when the company went bankrupt in 2009. The great retail complex that was supposed to have generated enough jobs, tourists, and tax revenue to get Poison Springs through the whole decade had become a giant albatross around his neck. For the first few years he had cleverly sidestepped the need to raise property taxes. During his final campaign for mayor, however, the late Michael Catalinelli had come to the end of the line. All of the knots he had tied himself into by using temporary solutions to long term problems seemed to tighten themselves around his neck.
The worst by far was brewing scandal over the Northeast Youth Protective Services apprenticeship program. In spite of his recent incarnation as a conservative, Michael Catalinelli had always liked to think of himself as a prison reformer. Very few people between the ages of 18 to 25 sentenced for non-violent crimes in the Winterborn County wound up doing very much jail time. Instead, they were usually given a very brief stay at one of the Northeast Youth Protection Services, private, for-profit minimum-security facilities, almost always followed by several years of "community service." Unpaid labor disguised as "community service" had in fact become so profitable that Evan Ciraski, the CEO of the Northeast Youth Protection Services, and a longtime crony of the mayor, established a quid pro quo with a local judge, who got 10% of the profit of each young person convicted and sent through the system.
The Northeast Youth Protection Service's biggest client was the city of Poison Springs. More specifically it was the cleanup of the construction site at Winterborn II. After the Winterborn II Corporation declared bankruptcy, and the site condemned, the local building trades union, which had originally been a strong supporter of the Comprehensive Citizens Identification Act (CCIA), had believed they would land a lucrative contract managing the demolition. They were dismayed, however, when Michael Catalinelli had instead chosen to use a core of highly skilled, non-union construction workers from out of state, heavily supplemented by unskilled labor from the Northeast Youth Protection Services, a move the Winterborn Daily Post's editorial page, more specifically Danny Grossinger, called "an innovative solution to the problem of illegal immigration as well as bloated trade unions."
It was, initially, a great success, saving the city so much money that the Catalinelli Administration had been able to lower property taxes for two consecutive years. That winter, however, disaster struck. The Northeast Youth Protection Services press releases notwithstanding, very few of the young people employed at Winterborn II received much training in construction work. To do an "apprenticeship in waste management" at Winterborn II was to pick up garbage for free. When a young woman who had been convicted of nothing but marijuana possession was assigned to start help clean up a trench near the far western side of the site, the ground gave way beneath her. Her companions were able to catch her, and pull her back to solid ground, her injuries minor, but further inspection revealed that the West Hill Mine Fire had reached the western edge of Winterborn II. Michael Catalinelli realized that he would have to raise property taxes after all.
What's more, the quid pro quo between Evan Ciraski and the judge had finally been brought to the mayor's attention in a way that he could no longer deny. Michael Catalinelli spent that winter and spring in front of a mirror, practicing the various ways he could say "I do not recall." It was going to take all of his formidable skills as a bullshit artist to make the cover up work.
"Evan Ciraski? That crook? I might have discussed the project at lunch with him a few times, but I don't recall ever hear him saying anything about waste management."
David Sherrod's defection, therefore, and the occupation of Reagan Plaza by the United Coalition Against the CCIA had come as a godsend, the backlash against the CCIA in 2014 proving almost as useful a distraction in 2014 as the CCIA itself had proved in 2010. As long as the local press was screaming at him to "clean that hippie scum out of Reagan Plaza" they weren't looking at Winterborn II. His press secretary, who might have been honest enough to give out of town reporters honest answers to honest questions, had flounced out of City Hall over a now obsolete law, obsolete because all the illegal immigrants were gone, he was thinking about repealing anyway.
Eventually, Catalinelli realized, he would have to spend the money on an expensive environmental cleanup. But that could wait. Under the cover of the ongoing debate over "illegal immigration," he began cutting his ties to Winterborn II. All work by the Northeast Youth Protection Service on the demolition west of the Scahentoarrhonon River was halted. Evan Ciraski was fired. The contract with the Northeast Youth Protective Services was quietly terminated, and the corrupt judge encouraged to retire to "spend more time with his family." The entire site was locked down under the pretext that "illegals" had been trespassing on the property and using the abandoned buildings as shelter. By May, the fence, along with a 24 hour presence by America's Guard prevented access from Route 1081. Catalinelli, who had briefly considered retirement the year before, now only wanted to hold on and win re-election, so he could have another term to finish cleaning up the mess that could, in the worst case scenario, land him in federal prison.
Chapter 24 - Shooting at the walls of heartache
John Avellanos and Cathy Chegoffgan continued to walk along the railroad bed, looping around to the back of the West Hill Coal Breaker. The hike was easy once you got to the top of West Hill, but he kept his eyes so firmly glued to the ground in front of him, so preoccupied with finding the green and yellow knit hat that she had to shove him hard once or twice after he came close to tripping over a culm dump or a pile of broken wooden railroad ties. The sun, now well above the horizon in the east, poured down onto the top of the summit, but they had both come, not to enjoy the beautiful, early fall day, but to pick through garbage.
> Cathy Chegoffgan sighed when they reached the cement wall on the other side of West Hill, having forgotten that the back of the West Hill Coal Breaker could at times resemble a miniature city dump. Finding that green and yellow hat would be a forbidding task. Nevertheless, she tapped the back of the knapsack, and pulled out both pairs of steel, reinforced gloves after Avellanos set it down on the ground. They set to work immediately, digging through clumps of newspapers, beer cans and beer bottles, milk cartons, plastic bags, paper cups, and plastic wrappers for the better part of three hours, piles of garbage that had been gathering for decades. They found nothing. Towards noon, she finally took off her steel reinforced gloves and threw them to the ground.
"That's enough," she said. "We're not going to find it."
"I guess you were right." he said.
"Even if we had found the hat in my photo, it wouldn't have meant anything anyway."
"Yes. It would have.
“They sell those hats everywhere. They sell them at WillyMart."
Avellanos shook his head.
"He put his initials on the inside with a magic marker."
She shook her head in turn.
"You know how much it rained over the summer?"
"He used a waterproof marker."
"If he's still alive and still wants to contact you, he'll see your name in the paper."
"He might have left town. He might not have seen that article."
They had been having the same argument all morning, and it probably would have continued into the afternoon, but a rat scurried across the concrete wall, stood in place, and defiantly bared its teeth. Avellanos picked up a stone and hurled it in the rat's direction, but he missed. He picked up another stone, missed by an even wider margin, and the rat, as if to taunt them both, scurried back and forth across the cement wall, then stood back on its hind legs. Cathy Chegoffgan dug into the knapsack, and took out a box of 38 caliber shells.
"Oh so you want to play you little rodent, do you?"
The rat dove under a pile of garbage as she loaded the old revolver, and handed it to John Avellanos, who was still laughing at the rat's acute sense of danger. He held it up, nothing impressive, just an old snub nosed little Colt 38 "Detective Special," but as soon as he felt its weight in his hand, it seemed to fill him with high spirits, and he twirled it around as though as he were a gunslinger in an old western. Cathy Chegoffgan was far from impressed. She grabbed his wrist with both her hands and pointed the barrel at the ground. He looked down, a sheepish expression coming to his face.
"You're going to fucking kill yourself," she said, prying the gun from his hand. "This isn't the fucking Eastwood Cafe you fucking moron."
"I'm sorry," he said.
She kept the revolver in her left hand with the safety on, pointing it towards the ground, as she walked over to the wall. Avellanos looked on as she picked up a series of beer bottles, and placed each one about a yard apart on top of the cement wall. She walked back over.
"OK. I'm going to give it back now," she said. "Try to remember you could accidentally kill us both."
"Is Catalinelli really going to ask me to the gun range?"
"If you get into the paper again he will."
“Why hasn't he ever asked Elizabeth?"
"She's a crack shot."
"I did not know that," he said.
"That's why he never asks her. He'll just wind up looking stupid. But if you get into the paper again, if you speak well on Friday, he'll ask you, and invite the media. And if you can't shoot, bang, you're exposed as a fake. Everybody will know you've never served in the military."
She switched off the safety, handed him the revolver, circled around behind, then told him to fire at the six bottles on the left side of the cement wall. He took a deep breath, and emptied the revolver in the direction of the beer bottles, but didn't manage to hit even one. She took the revolver back, picked up the box of shells off the ground, loaded it, waved her hand that he should stand behind her, assumed a proper stance, and fired. She hit six for six.
"Maybe you can dress up as me and go with Catalinelli to the gun range if he asks."
"I am a mediocre shot at best," she said, picking another six shells out of the box, loading the old revolver and handing it back. "Those bottles are close enough for anybody to hit."
Avellanos did his best imitation of the way he had seen her stand, and fired another six shots. This time he hit one of the bottles.
"Better."
"But not good enough," he said. "Why don't I just refuse to join him at the gun range if he asks me?"
“Then you still look like a fake."
"I don't have to," he said. "I can say I've got post-traumatic stress disorder and can't stand to be around guns."
"Watch."
Cathy Chegoffgan walked back another ten paces and reloaded the revolver. Avellanos followed her back, making sure to get behind her as she aimed. She fired off another six shots, once again hitting hit the mark six times in a row.
"Do you ever miss?"
"I missed once. It's never going to happen again."
Cathy Chegoffgan stepped forward, picked up the box of shells, and reloaded. She crumpled up the box and threw it to the ground.
"That's the last six shells," she said.
"I'll hit something this time," Avellanos said.
He took the revolver, and planted his feet. He took a deep breath, and aimed carefully, inhaling and exhaling slowly each time he pulled the trigger. This time, he managed to hit 5 out of six bottles, barely missing the last.
"I'm beginning to like this," he said. "Why didn't you bring more bullets?"
"That's enough for one day," she said.
Avellanos gave her back the old revolver. She walked over to the wall, picked up the last bottle and smashed it on the ground. He followed. She put the revolver back in the knapsack, and closed the flap, noticing that he still seemed to be looking around for his cousin's hat. Suddenly, she stepped forward very quickly, picked up something off the ground, and held it underneath her cupped hands.
"So you said that your cousin marked his hat off with his initials."
"Yes."
"And that he used waterproof ink?"
"Yes."
"So if we find the hat in my photo you'll know if it's your cousins or not?"
"Yes."
"Here it is."
Cathy Chegoffgan handed John Avellanos the object she had underneath her two hands, a yellow, knit hat with green ducks threaded through both sides. He pounded on it hungrily, snatching it from her hands, turning it inside out, then back again, then inside out a second time. She watched him as he continued to examine it, not finding what he was looking for, but apparently half believing that if he looked long enough the initials would appear, that he could will them into existence out of nowhere. Finally, he threw the hat to the ground.
"You were right," he said. "It wasn't his hat."
"I'm sorry," she said, pressing his face onto her shoulder. "I don't know what to say."
"Ah. You don't have to say anything. You brought me up here. Now I know I don't know. Maybe the only thing I'll ever know is I'll never know. Maybe I'm being totally selfish. Maybe I just want to be sure he's dead so I can keep his name. Who knows? Maybe we should just go back down."
Cathy Chegoffgan pointed up at the West Hill Coal Breaker.
“We haven't looked inside."
"That place is huge."
"You told me about that room you two always went to."
“I don't want to bring you up there. It's too dangerous."
"Sexist."
"No. Seriously."
"Seriously."
"If you get hurt because of me I'll never forgive myself."
"I'm going up there," she said. "You can come along or not."
Chapter 25 - The Poet
John Avellanos followed Cathy Chegoffgan over the wall, through the fence, and into the West Hill Coal Breaker. The immense, old industrial space made
him hesitate, not out of wonder but out of fear. Avellanos had been inside the West Hill Coal Breaker dozens of times before. Without his cousin's domineering personality to distract his attention, however, he realized for the first time how dangerous it really was. He was also concerned that Cathy Chegoffgan didn't seem to be afraid at all. He came up close and put his arm around her, leaning over her head so that if anything crashed to the first floor from any of the upper floors, he could absorb the blow.
"Nothing's going to crack us in the head," she said, almost as if she had read his thoughts. "I've been coming here all my life."
"Things happen."
"Sometimes they don't."
“I wonder what it was like to work here 100 years ago," she said. "They used to hire 12-year-old kids. It must have been so fucking loud."
"I wouldn't know what half this crap is."
They continued to explore, hoping to find some trace of Martin Ruiz, but also becoming more and more interested in the building itself. Indeed, looking closely at the conveyor belts, holding tanks, coal jigs, sluice boxes, and various screens and filters, many of which had crashed down onto the first floor from the upper levels over the past several decades, almost seemed like stepping into a live demonstration of their own ignorance, not only about how coal was processed but about machinery in general. He mused about how poorly his own privileged education had suited him to make a living. She tapped away at her smart phone trying to look up each part on Wikipedia. They stopped in front of what she told him had been a "Motor Control Center," an impressive looking panel full of gages, switches, and circuit breakers that looked like it could have been the inspiration for a primitive computer in an old science fiction movie. She pointed up to the second floor.
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