THE COLLAPSE: Swantown Road

by Frank Kaminski

  “Babe, why did you lay out some clothes for me?” Stephen asked, yelling into the kitchen as be began to take his shoes off while still near the door. He was a bit filthy from digging around in the wet soil outside.

  Tarra paused before replying, “Oh, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t wear your metal detecting clothes to the bar tonite.”

  “Ok, thanks. But I am not five years old, I can pick out my own clothes next time!” Stephen laughed.

  “No, you can’t.” Tarra barked back but then laughed along with him. “Did you find anything today?”

  Stephen fished a few earthy coins out of his front pocket and proudly presented them to her, mostly pennies, and said, “I found a couple of wheaties and a Mercury dime! The rest was all newer stuff. My hands got really cold and it was hard to keep digging.”

  “Well, good job babe. I am glad you had a good time. Now hurry up and take a shower so we can eat! The Kays will be getting off the bus any minute now.” Tarra said, as she bent over and scooped up Constantine’s baby in one fluid motion and pranced off into Katrina’s bedroom. Katrina had a baby doll basinet that was darn near the actual size of a normal basinet, and with a soft fleece blanket as a cushion it would work perfectly for the Little Angel.

  Stephen sniffed the air and complimented his wife, “Smells awesome, babe.”

  “It’s my special BC curry, you’ll love it.” She said with an impish smirk as she walked back out of Katrina’s bedroom.

  “I’m sure I will!” He said, but thought to himself: Hmm, BC curry, I’ve never heard of that one before.

  Chapter 6 – The Chicken Standoff Ends Terribly

  Fish was late. He told Connie that he would meet her at the bar on Pioneer Avenue at six thirty, but he didn’t arrive until almost seven. He had fallen asleep, somehow, while changing his clothes after a shower. The details were unclear. Connie was already at the bar, as she said she would be, and Fish somewhat felt like a horse’s ass as he walked in.

  He was able to pick out Constantine immediately. The poor girl had been so excited to get out of her shitty little apartment that she had overdressed, donning a blood red spaghetti strap blouse and a sleek, formfitting and sexy black mini-skirt. A shiny three-quarter length black leather jacket hung off the barstool seatback behind her. Fish should have told her that they would be going to a regular bar first, and remaining there for several hours before heading off to the dance floor at the other, more upscale, bar down the street. She was literally a mermaid amidst a salty lineup of dry-shaven, booze-breathing regulars along the bar.

  It was the ‘early crowd’ as the bartenders lovingly labeled it. One cackling old hag for every seven to ten grumpy old men. There was no room in that equation for an attractive woman in her early twenties, dressed to kill.

  Connie turned around when she heard the door swing open and right away threw Fish a HELP ME look of distress. It was almost comical! As Fish sauntered to the bar, several of the regulars joyously hooted and hollered at his entrance. He was practically a celebrity with the early crowd, and shook many hands and clapped many shoulders on his way over to Constantine.

  Once next to her, and it was officially established that the amazingly gorgeous and out-of-place chick at the bar was with Fish, the hoots, hollers and cackling increased in decibel level. One guy shouted, “I knew it! I told ya, I fuckin’ knew it!” Fish did his best to keep his composure as he stood next to her and not bust out laughing, but it happened anyway.

  Connie glared at him, “Oh my god, I can’t believe you were late. I’ve been fighting off these vultures for a half an hour! I’m exhausted!” She laughed, wanting to sound upset but in her glee of new freedom and relief to finally see Fish in the bar, it eluded her completely.

  A skinny old man in a flannel overshirt casually walked over and nonchalantly squeezed between a regular and Constantine. He leaned against the bar and said to her in a Bostonian style accent, “So, these two peanuts were walking around in a bad part of Seattle, and, as it turns out, one was assaulted.” After the joke, the old guy completely spazzed out with laughter. “Get it? A salted!” He screamed.

  “See what I’ve been dealing with?” She harangued, looking at Fish. She was also trying her best not to start laughing at the exuberant man’s bad joke as well.

  Fish motioned for the bartender, “Hey, Louie, can I get the remote please? And two Coor’s Light drafts.”

  Connie made a face and said, “I don’t really like beer.”

  “Who said the second one was for you?” Fish asked, grinning.

  “Oh, my bad.” Connie replied, embarrassed.

  “No worries.” Fish explained. “I drink two at a time when it’s busy like this. It will die down in here once most of the early crowd heads home, usually before eight.”

  Connie asked, “Where is Mr. Alexander?”

  Fish raised his eyebrows at her as Louie handed over a television remote and then separately the two beers he requested. Fish harrumphed and said to Connie, “You said ‘mister’ Alexander? Wow, really dude?”

  “Well, what else should I call him, isn’t he retired now?”

  “How about Stephen or Stevo? I like to go with Stevo. It has a better ring to it.” Fish said, and then put the grimy remote in his mouth to free up both of his hands in order to walk his beers over to a table away from all the commotion at the bar. It was directly under a television.

  “Oh my god, you just put that thing in your mouth!” Connie exclaimed, following him with her leather jacket in one hand and a rum-and-coke in the other.

  “Yeah, and?” Fish asked, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with sticking a greasy, grime-coated and anonymously manhandled bar-room TV remote in one’s mouth.

  “That was totally over the top.” Constantine giggled. “Remind me never to kiss you.”

  She said it while looking sideways at Fish, a smile on her lips and a playful expression in her eyes. Fish was taken aback at her comment, she was a decade and a half younger than him.

  “OK, roger that.” He replied awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say. It probably wasn’t what Connie wanted to hear, but Fish never said the right things at the right time or place. Or maybe he was simply too sober and uncomfortable to deal with her playfulness at the moment. A few drinks, however, could easily transform that dynamic.

  Changing the subject, Fish used the nasty remote to turn on the dusty TV above them in their own little corner of the bar. It was one of the old boob-tubes, still faithfully in service. He asked if she had heard about the Chicken Stand Off, to which she replied that she had, mostly through social media, and that she agreed with the protesters. It didn’t seem as if she was nearly as interested in the Stand Off as he was, though. To top things off, she wasn’t even familiar with his chicken-loving hero, Emil Knard.

  The pair took to their drinks, Connie sipping while Fish chugged, and watched the news on the shitty little TV as the regulars at the bar increased in number and became louder and more animated. Although the crowd seemed entertaining to Connie (she enjoyed people-watching as a hobby), Fish was not interested in the regulars and their bar-babble whatsoever and was forced to turn up the volume on the news twice, angrily glaring at the masses that were gathered at the bar each time.

  After about ten minutes of no communication with each other and nothing but the news, Constantine asked where Stephen was. Fish seemed annoyed at her interruption, as the Stand- Off had progressed significantly and had become interesting once again. The reporters had been pushed away from the scene by law enforcement, and were providing their analysis from at least a block or two from the restaurant, as some type of intervention was imminent. Whether it was to be violent or not, was unknown. Fish just had to know.

  When Connie asked if he wanted another beer, Fish shushed her, but then realized what she was asking and tossed a twenty dollar bill at her and asked for two more beers, adding that she could buy herself a drink with the money as well, if she wanted. When she returned
with his drinks, she softly set them down in front of him, ensuring not to interrupt the view of his precious news, which she had sadly acknowledged to herself was more important to him than she was. She quietly went back to her seat and sat with her hands in her lap and decided to people watch.

  As Fish gulped his way into his fourth beer, he noticed that the skin on his face was warm and he was buzzing slightly. He looked over at Constantine in her sexy clothes as she patiently sat with him while he watched the stupid news. Even though she was across the small table, he could still smell her. He inhaled deeply through his nose and immersed himself in whatever delightful perfume she was wearing. What in God’s name is wrong with me? He thought. This poor little gorgeous girl never gets out of the house, and the one opportunity she actually does land to go out and party, she is all excited about it and dolls herself up, but ends up hanging out with her old, boring, loser boss that watches the damn news all night. For the love of god, quit being an asshole and fix it, douchebag.

  And that is exactly what he did.

  “Hey pretty lady, are you ready for some shots?” He asked her with a devilish grin, and flipped off the TV with the remote. “Do you like Fireball?”

  “Hell yeah! Who doesn’t?” She responded quickly, and perked up with elation. She assumed that since he turned the TV off, that he was going to give her some attention instead, and she welcomed it.

  Her enthusiasm warmed Fish’s heart as he proudly strutted toward the bar to retrieve the drinks. Before he attempted to battle a path, with elbow-and-shoulder, through the regulars to get the bartender’s attention, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted Stephen.

  ‘Where the fuck you at, yo?’

  *****

  Stephen had just finished inhaling his curry when his phone vibrated on the table with a text notification. He knew it was Fish, so he didn’t even pick up his phone to look at what he might have said. Ever so polite, Stephen was not the eat-and-run type, especially since Tarra had made him such a special dinner. But she was already one step ahead of him and aware of the situation.

  “Get out of here, babe.” She said, winking at Stephen and pointing at the phone. “I know that’s Fish.”

  “Yeah, but I just finished, and I want to spend some time with you and the kids first,

  and –“

  “Quit being a little bitch and go!” She playfully scolded, as she leapt from her chair and thrust her forearms under his armpits. Before he could continue to argue, she used her powerful thighs to hoist him up from the table. The Kays squealed in delight with The Sameness at the awkward display as Stephen lost his balance over his chair for a second and almost took a spill.

  “Alright, alright, I’m going!” Stephen said as he recovered, pretending as if he was being ‘forced’ to go party with his best friend at the bar. He checked the text from Fish to see what he had said, and then tapped his contacts list for a taxi. He never drank and drove. There really was no excuse for it, in his opinion, since a cab was never more than five or ten minutes away on Whidbey Island.

  On his way out the door, Tarra instructed, “Make sure you give Fish a big hug from me when you get there.” She chuckled as she said it, and Stephen wondered what the hell the hug was for. Maybe it was because she was thankful for the opportunity to babysit this weekend? Nah, that was silly. He wasn’t sure. Once in the back seat of the cab, he texted Fish back.

  ‘Enroute.’

  Fish and Connie had already plowed down two sets of Fireballs before Stephen finally waltzed into the bar. As he greeted them, he immediately gave Fish a brotherly hug, as instructed. “That’s from Tarra.” He said as he pulled back.

  Baffled, Fish exclaimed, “What the fuck was that for?” He sniffed the air above Stephen’s shoulders and made a face. “And why, in the name of all that’s holy, do you smell like an Indian restaurant? Onions and spices and shit. Cripes, is that curry?”

  Connie, who glad to see him, also added, “Hello Petty Officer Alexander, and yes, you do smell a lot like food.”

  “You can call me Stephen.” He informed her. She was being militarily courteous, which wasn’t necessary since he was retired from active duty.

  After Stephen pondered their reaction to his entrance for a moment, the realization hit him like a sock full of wet shit. Tarra had set him up.

  “Oh my god, she got me.” Stephen said quietly to himself, slumping into a bar chair next to Fish, thinking back upon the extra fragrant choice of dinner, and the fact that his bar clothes were chosen by her and left out in the living room the whole time she was cooking. He had figured it out. BC curry must have meant ‘Birth Control’ curry. Damn, that woman is good! I never saw it coming!

  “What did you say?” Fish asked.

  “Nothing, never mind. I just figured something out.”

  “Like what…that you smell like shit?” Fish laughed. Connie laughed too, extra loud, since she had reached that girlish, half-drunk and love struck point where anything Fish said, regardless of how ridiculous or pathetic it was, would be funny to her. It indicated a deep-seeded crush, normally concealed, but now apparent most likely due to the alcohol.

  Stephen murmured, “No, well, Tarra got me this dinner, and I, yeah.”

  “Dude, are you gonna sit there and babble all night or are we gonna drink?” Fish questioned. Although Stephen discovered that he actually could smell the curry on himself, another smell was even stronger. A delicious invisible cloud of cinnamon gusto permeated the atmosphere in front of him. It emanated from the breath of his friends and wafted off the four empty shot glasses of Fireball on the table. Almost as if it was a living creature itself, the scent beckoned him to join the party. Stephen’s mouth watered as he snapped out of his stupor and looked at his best friend.

  “Hell yeah, brother, let’s do this! Or, as I should say, ‘Let’s do this, yo!’” Stephen yelled.

  “That’s the spirit!” Fish yelled back.

  “Let’s do this, yo!” Connie yelled too, in her high-pitched, extra-feminine voice.

  Stephen smiled and high-fived Connie as Fish went to the bar. The two made small talk as they anxiously waited. Minutes later, Fish returned with a tray full of drinks. Four pints of beer, eight shots of Fireball and a rum and coke. He flamboyantly set the tray on the table.

  Connie raised an eyebrow at the intimidating arrangement in front of her and said, “Wow. That’s a lot.”

  “That’s right.” Fish replied, and then slapped Stephen on the back. “Curry boy here needs to catch up!”

  Stephen was ordered to do two shots by himself, in order to ‘catch up’ with Fish and Constantine. He eagerly chased each one with a large slug of beer. The trio was about to cheers each other with another shot, all together this time, but an intense raucous at the bar postponed their celebratory toast. All of the regulars were up-in-arms about something on the television above the bartender, who was also watching the TV and not serving drinks. Odd, since there wasn’t a game scheduled that evening and no UFC fight until the next day. So it couldn’t have been sports.

  Fish was the first to notice that the commotion had something to do with his beloved Chicken Stand-Off and raced over to the bar to get a closer look. Stephen and Connie looked at each other and silently agreed with a nod that they should go see what was happening as well.

  “That’s fucking bullshit!” One of the grizzled regulars hollered at the TV, with echoes of agreement from several of the others. The Chicken Stand-Off had become a Chicken Slaughter. A reporter was summarizing the events. The protesters were given a deadline at which time they were ordered to peacefully disperse. The ones that went along with the deadline were promised amnesty from any charges. When the deadline approached, a dozen or so protesters left the picket line as requested, but were immediately placed into handcuffs, an obvious breach of the amnesty agreement. The remaining protesters, observing their comrades being hauled away by the police, retreated back into the restaurant. Law enforcement launched tear gas caniste
rs into the restaurant, and with no protection from the awful effects, the police assumed that they would all just come out with their hands up. That never happened. They came out, but shots were fired, some say accidentally, but nevertheless, the seal had been broken. An all-out showdown ensued, with a majority of the protesters wiped out within seconds. The surviving protesters were beaten down to the ground and arrested.

  Several network helicopters had captured the events on film in real time, live, as they occurred. The most graphic scenes were being replayed. It was awful, and hard to believe that a civilized government police force (at any level) could possibly do this to their own citizens.

  The bartender went around and methodically turned on every TV in the joint, and adjusted each one to a different local network. “It’s on every channel,” he solemnly declared to his patrons.

  “This is just absolutely terrible.” Fish said as if he shocked by the events (but he wasn’t). He was on a mission, moving from TV to TV, scanning the different reports for his favorite person, Emil Knard. He had hoped that his hero might have survived the massacre somehow. Maybe he was one of the first surrenderers and was already sitting handcuffed very uncomfortably in the back seat of a police car. Fish felt as though the legendary Emil Knard would not have given up that easily, and he was likely already dead.

  Most of the networks were fixated on replaying a particularly gruesome double headshot that a young African-American female in a Krispy Krib t-shirt received as she hurriedly fled the restaurant to escape the tear gas. It was overwhelmingly apparent from every angle that she was unarmed. The two shots were hair fractions of a second apart, and blasted a good portion of her skull away on one side. It pulled a few million heartstrings across America, since she had an awkward, embarrassing type of run that immediately humanized her before she was gunned down.