Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  Tom jumped up on the counter and Nigel went to grab the cat’s entire head with his hand. The cat met him halfway and pressed back as Nigel rubbed his face, neck, and ears. “Well, it’s good to see you too.” Nigel moved his hand to scratch the cat’s back and he approved, arching high and pointing his tail toward the ceiling.

  Nigel headed back to the porch, and Tom made chase. He settled back in his chair, and waited on the weather and sleep to come. Tom jumped up on the porch swing, walked around in three tight circles, scratched a bit at the cushion and flopped down. Shaking his head Nigel asked, “You comfy over there?” He slouched down in his chair and slid a pillow behind his neck and head thinking Crazy damn cat. Billy Joel’s Piano Man was playing on the radio and he could hear the weather off in the distance. He closed his eyes.

  The air was saturated with humidity. When the rains arrived, they did so as a suspended mist, struggling to reach the ground. Then the first successful sprinkles started to land, clearing the way for others. The pace of the light rain increased. The wind briefly stopped blowing and the bottom fell out of the clouds. The rain came as an all-out downpour. The drops of rain were replaced with a solid column of water dropping from the sky. The sound of the rain was loud but relaxing, and the heavier storms were still out of town. The edge of the storm brought cloud-to-ground lightning off in the distance. Its thunder caused Nigel to open his eyes and look around. The cat hadn’t moved. The thought of heading to bed crossed his mind, but he was comfortable enough, so the idea was dismissed. He laced his fingers in his lap, leaned his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes and found sleep again.

  It was around midnight when the slow-moving storm got on top of them. The wind had returned and the lightning was heavy and active, strikes all around. The trees and palms danced in protest as the wind pushed their tops around at will and in every direction. Somewhere on a nearby block a transformer blew. The background music of Oyster Radio went quiet and everything else dark.

  The Advil PM was doing its job. Nigel slept through just about everything, only cracking an eye every now and then at the close lightning strikes. It wasn’t until the cat began hissing and howling that Nigel opened his eyes wide and became alert.

  He sat up straighter, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. He couldn’t see anything. It was pitch black. He might as well have had his eyes closed. There was no difference. He couldn’t see Tom, but he could tell he was off the swing. He was in front of Nigel, somewhere between him and the screen door uttering a long, skin-crawling yowl.

  “What is it?” Nigel whispered. Then he stood up to look out toward the front yard. He could hear the heavy rain splashing in the small pond that always collects in his yard, but he saw nothing.

  A flash of lightning provided a brief moment of illumination. Then it went pitch black again, but something caught his eye. Nigel said nothing and kept his eyes trained on the area where he thought he saw something. Then some cloud-to-cloud lightning bounced around and cast a glow about the yard. There, standing in the middle of the grass, was a single figure watching the house. It was Candice.

  Without lightning, nothing was visible. When the next round of flashes came, she was still there, but he could tell she had backed up several steps. He opened the door and stepped out into the rain. He called out, “Candice!” He walked toward her. He still couldn’t see her, but as he moved closer he began to hear her gasping for air. She was crying. A crack of lightning confirmed she hadn’t moved. When he reached her, she was barely visible in the darkness.

  He reached out to touch her face and she let him, tilting her head into his palm. He ran his fingers across her cheeks and his thumb underneath an eye. He could feel her viscous tears, even through all the rain. He withdrew his hand letting his fingertips caress her chin.

  “Candice. How long have you been out here?”

  She didn’t answer, and he didn’t see her shoulders shrug. I don’t know.

  “Please,” he said. “Come inside. Let’s get you out of the weather.”

  Again, she said nothing, and he couldn’t make out the fact that she was shaking her head.

  Nigel reached out for her hand, but, the second he touched her arm, she pulled away. Then she spoke. Her words were barely audible over the rain and wind, but Nigel heard every word.

  In the darkness she asked, “Is all this true?”

  Several thick bolts of lightning stretched across the clouds in several directions, looking for a place to land. They lit up the sky like an early morning sunrise. Candice held something soggy and wilted in her hand. Nigel recognized it immediately. It was the newspaper article he had left with her the last time they were together. That was over a month ago.

  The article was written by Sherry Stone, a reporter from Tidewater Virginia. In it, she provides surprising, if not shocking, details about Nigel’s past. A period and history that no one else on The Forgotten Coast, except Red, knows about. In particular, the shroud of suspicion regarding Nigel’s involvement in the murder of one Terrance “T-Daddy” Lundsford.

  There was silence between them. Nigel could barely see movement, but she was shaking the article in the air. “Come on, dammit. Tell me!”

  He answered her, but a crack of lightning drowned out his answer. But in the flash of light she could read his lips. She looked to the sky and began to cry even harder, even though she was empty of tears. Nigel stepped in closer and took her in his arms and pulled her close. She hesitated, but gave in as they held each other tight in the rain. His lips found her neck and he kissed her over and over again until he reached her waiting mouth. As they kissed, her mouth became more welcoming and they became consumed with one another.

  As they kissed in the yard, the rain began to let up. The lightning became less frequent, the thunder more distant. They came up for air and looked at each other in the dark. Their breathing was as heavy as the wind. Nigel whispered, “I do love you.” Candice didn’t hear him, nor could she see to read his lips, but she didn’t have to. Nigel reached down, picked her up, and carried her back to the cottage. The storm was over ... for now.

  Bowery Station

  It must be a combination of sun, sand, and alcohol, or perhaps there is something in the water, but, whatever the cause, Florida shenanigans are the best. It was a Saturday afternoon and Nigel was on his way out to St. George Island. He was headed to Paddles, a seaside watering hole to attend an album release party for his good friend Brian Bowen. Brian was promoting his newest release, 10 Mile Smile, a collection of six coastal tunes that celebrate the area and people of the Forgotten Coast. A few of the songs were already getting quite a bit of air time on Oyster Radio and becoming popular with the locals and many tourists. Nigel didn’t have a copy yet, so he figured attending to support his buddy was the proper thing to do. Plus, on more than one occasion, Brian had mentioned the bikini eye-candy was worth the trip. Not that Nigel was in the market, but it never hurts to look.

  Having never been to St. George, Nigel wasn’t exactly sure where he was going. As a navigator by trade, he was confident he could figure it out. It’s just an island after all. It’s a busy island, though, as Nigel came to find out, especially on Saturdays. He should have taken that into consideration. It was turn-around day. The mass of tourists ending their vacation and trying to leave the island, collide with their replacements eager to get on and get started. It makes for quite the cluster.

  It didn’t take long for Nigel to realize that he missed his turn. He turned down a little side street so he could turn around. He was about to borrow a driveway when he noticed some commotion at the end of the street. Two Franklin County Sheriff squad cars had their blue lights flashing and a collection of onlookers had taken to the street and gathered around. Curiosity got the best of Nigel so he eased on for a better look himself.

  As he got closer, it was obvious things couldn’t be too serious. Folks in the crowd were smiling and laughing. Nigel still couldn’t see. The squad cars were blocking his view, but he could
see the erratic movements of the two deputies on the other side of the cars. Nigel got out to join the others. As he walked up, he asked anyone that would listen, “What’s going on?”

  A guy turned and said with a grin, “Crazy shit, man. This guy has flipped his lid.”

  As Nigel stepped around the cars, he took in the scene. The two deputies were dancing around trying to corral another fella into the squad car. “What the hell?” said Nigel.

  “Told you, dude,” the guy said. “This fella is bat-shit crazy.”

  The guy the deputies were trying to apprehend was buck naked. Well almost, he had inserted his pecker into the sleeve of an extra-large curling iron cover and was holding it tight underneath his little pot belly. When anyone tried to approach him, he would bark a maniacal laugh and rush toward them wagging it back and forth and up and down. The deputies had on rubber gloves, but would sidestep and dodge like bull fighters anytime he got too close.

  Nigel asked the other guy, “Who is he?”

  “Don’t know,” the guy said. Best I can tell, his name is Frank. That’s what the deputies and that woman on the porch keep calling him.”

  Sure enough, there was a woman standing on a porch screaming, “Frank! Frank! Get your ass back in the house. You are embarrassing me! Now, Frank ... get in here.”

  All the while one of the deputies was trying to coax him, “Come on, Frank. Either get in the car, or go back in the house, so we can talk about this. We don’t want to hurt you, now. But we’ve had just about enough of this nonsense.”

  This went on for another couple of minutes and Nigel found himself getting bored with it all. He was walking back to his truck when he heard one deputy say to the other, “Shoot him, Jimmy.” That was enough to rekindle Nigel’s attention.

  “Hell no,” deputy Jimmy said. “You shoot him. I don’t want to have to deal with the paperwork.”

  The woman on the porch was screaming, “Did you hear that, Frank? Did ya? They’s about to shoot your ass. You better get in here.”

  But Frank wasn’t going to have anything to do with it. In a defiant last stand, he bowed his back, pointed the curling iron sleeve up in the air, and wiggled it back and forth while he barked like a dog. The deputy not named Jimmy said, “Oh, hell. Enough of this.”

  The barking and the wiggling ended and was replaced with a girlish scream the second the two, small, dart-like electrodes penetrated his belly. Neuromuscular incapacitation took over and his entire body wiggled and jerked around in the street. He looked like a freshly caught fish that had been dropped in a boat. As the curling iron sleeve was let go and all his glory was made available for view, none of the women looking on were too impressed. Nigel heard voices from across the street. That’s it? That’s all you got? The crowd dispersed to mind their own business. The excitement was over.

  As the deputies were getting the situation under control, the woman on the porch ran inside the house. Moments later she reemerged with a dirty pair of blue jeans and an old stained tank-top. She ran out to the curb and threw the clothes out on the street and said, “Here! He’s your problem now. And don’t bring him back until he can bring two handles of vodka and enough weed to replace what he smoked.”

  The two deputies looked at her as Nigel walked back to the car. He was thinking She probably shouldn’t have said all that.

  When Nigel parked his car at Paddles, he still had the image of a naked Frank dancing around with the curling iron sleeve containing his little junk. As he got out of his truck, he could hear Brian just starting a song off his new album, Beach People Problems. Nigel laughed as he thought Well, that seems appropriate.

  Nigel entered the deck and walked up to where Brian was playing. He threw a ten-spot in the tip jar and Brian ad-libbed a “thanks, stranger” into his lyrics. Nigel settled himself at a back table and listened. Brian was having a good afternoon. The tip jar was filling and the CDs in the box were being replaced with cash.

  When he closed out his last set, he opened a fresh Miller Lite and entered into casual chit-chat with patrons as he made his way over to Nigel’s table. He took a seat. It was a hot afternoon and sweat oozed out his pores. “You should hydrate better,” Nigel said.

  “I am,” said Brian, “there’s water in beer.”

  “I guess there is. Are you done for the day?”

  “Nope. I’m playing at B.S. from six till whenever.”

  B.S. is an acronym affectionately used for obvious purposes. But it’s also the short name for the Bowery Station, where there is plenty of good-time B.S. to go around. It’s back on the mainland in Apalachicola. When it emerged on the scene a couple years ago, it wasted no time becoming the hottest spot in town, creating a sense of community that welcomed everybody across all walks of life. There is no shortage of characters to make the party.

  B.S. is a small, cozy venue like no other. Finding a seat can be a chore, but that is no problem. There is plenty of space on the sidewalk benches and picnic tables where the B.S. often overflows.

  The operation is pretty simple: cold beer, wine, roasted peanuts in the shell, and great music. That is a combination that is hard to beat, especially when it is run by good, honest, hardworking folks that have as much fun as the patrons.

  Nigel looked at his watch, “Well, it’s after five; you better get your ass in gear and tear down. Can I help?”

  “No, brother. I have a routine.”

  After settling his tab, Nigel was headed to his truck. He was following as Brian was hauling a speaker back to his vehicle. Nigel called after him, “Oh, shit. I almost forgot. I need a CD.”

  Nigel was reaching into his pocket when Brian put the speaker down and tossed one to him. Nigel tried to give him money, but Brian held up his hand. “Your money isn’t any good here. Happy Birthday.”

  “My birthday was back in February.”

  “Well, damn then. I guess I’m a few months late.”

  Nigel smiled and didn’t argue. “Thanks, dude.”

  Driving across the bridge, Nigel reached over and picked up the CD that was sitting on the console. He ripped the plastic cover off with his teeth and popped the disk into his stereo. With the windows rolled down, he had to turn the volume up, but he would have cranked it up regardless.

  As he sat at the light waiting to turn left onto Highway 98, back toward Apalach and Port St. Joe, something caught his eye. Hell, it would have caught anybody’s eye. A scraggly-looking guy sporting knotty dreadlocks and a scarlet macaw parrot on his shoulder was across the street with some obvious tourists. Most locals don’t dress to the pastel, preppy standards of IZOD and Vineyard Vines. Thank God!

  When Nigel saw the exchange of money and merchandise, he snickered and laughed. As he pulled through the intersection he thought Somebody’s getting high on the beach tonight. Perhaps an altered state of mind will help them realize just how silly they look in baby blue on yellow and pink on chartreuse. Hey Biff and Babs, it is not 1985 and you’re not on Martha’s Vineyard anymore.

  Logan doesn’t smoke pot. He hasn’t smoked any since before he shipped out to boot camp. Two months prior to his departure date his friends threw one hell of a farewell party. It had only three ingredients: Beer, Weed, and Pizza. He got more fucked up than the Cheshire Cat and spent most of the evening in a big La-Z-Boy recliner. The next morning, he was still in the chair; his head still a little foggy with a slight pounding. One of his buddies was on the couch. He was rolling a new one. He fired it up and brought it to Nigel. Logan waved it off. “No thanks. I had enough last night. I’m done. No more.” He hasn’t smoked since, and that morning was a new beginning to a most disciplined Navy career.

  Having the party two months prior was important. His recruiter told him, if he was going to partake in any recreationals, he didn’t want to know about it, and, more importantly, there should be none taken 60 days prior to shipping out. “You want to show up with a clean system,” his recruiter said. “You will piss in a bottle when you get there, and you don’t want th
em throwing your ass back on the bus to send you home.”

  Logan’s recruiter didn’t lie. The day after arriving at the Recruit Training Command in Great Lakes, IL, the Navy’s newest boot camp company was lined up for their first of many tests. The little piss cups were handed out.

  In the days after they surrendered their samples, it was during a Smoke and Coke break that one of Logan’s shipmates began to brag about how he was able to pull the wool over the Navy’s eyes. His name was Patterson, and he was good at talking a big game. He was from New York, the Bronx, and spoke in terms of absolutes and matters of fact. His farewell party, he claimed, was the night before he got on the bus. He boasted about getting all messed up the night before he left for the Navy. The difference, however, was that he drank two quart bottles of white vinegar the morning after. In his thick, over-confident accent he swore, “Makes you piss pure spring water.”

  Most of Logan’s first shipmates were fresh out of high school. Three of them were only seventeen years old. Their parents had to sign a waiver for them to join. Essentially, they gave up their parental custody and the Navy became their new mommy. Those that were listening to Patterson were awestruck and gullible. They were eating it up. Logan was a little older than most. He was only a few weeks from tuning twenty-one, so he wasn’t buying. He didn’t say anything, but thought ... Patterson, you’re an idiot.

  It was about a week and a half later. Most had already forgotten about their little piss test, those that didn’t have anything to worry about anyway. It was morning. Everyone was standing at attention at the foot of their rack, ready for inspection and breakfast. Their chief, the company commander, came out of his office. He walked up and down the floor with a piece of paper in his hand. He was squinting and his bottom lip was puffed and curled out, his signature look of discontent.

  After three or four passes, he stopped at the head of the room and with heightened rage started reading names. “I need the following three pieces of shit to take two steps forward. Wilson,” he paused for dramatic effect. There were two Wilsons in the company. The sphincter of Tim Wilson loosened up when the chief finally said, “Wilson! Allen Wilson.”