Dead Nolte

by Borne Wilder

  Experiences, if properly committed to memory, could be valuable possessions. They can be relived and relished, or drawn on to impress and woo the right women, and by right women, Ron meant rich women. Too many times he had seen other men tell lies and spin yarns to impress women of means, only to see their façade crumble under the slightest interrogation. In Ron’s eyes, any exaggeration, embellishment, or flat out lie would devaluate memory to a point, where it wasn’t worth having. If you can’t be true to yourself, and that’s what it boiled down to, why bother drawing breath.

  The right woman had helped Ron buy his club. By all accounts, she had been the perfect woman, beautiful, intelligent and very wealthy. She had actually purchased a part of his heart that hadn’t even been for sale. She was a shrewd negotiator.

  It was she, who had shown him what decadence really was, and how obscenely expensive trinkets and tastes truly put flavor into life. She was what Ron had always dreamed of, Mrs. Right, her only downside was she and her wealth had been attached to the wrong husband. An older fellow who didn’t cotton to the idea of other men spending his money, or fucking his wife, and though he thoroughly frowned upon the extramarital activity, it wasn’t the jealousy that had terminated the relationship, so much as the husband’s discovery of the unwitting financial aid he had been providing Ron’s business venture.

  It was the monetary cuckoldry that had really pissed the husband off. Although by the time the gentleman had discovered his coffers had been raided, the damage had been done. Ron had gotten a deep taste of opulence and had become absolutely addicted.

  The rise from bartender to bar owner had been long, if not hard, and though Ron would be considered successful by many, he didn’t have the cash cushion he felt he needed. The goodies and baubles Ron adorned himself with, still required great financial sacrifice. He wanted the best of everything, without it hurting so much.

  Of course, he would split the crazy woman’s money with his brother, he was by no means greedy, he just had refined taste. Three-quarters of million would do nicely to keep him rolling, even allow him to acquire a few more collectibles. Ron wasn’t cash strapped or hurting, he just wasn’t quite where he wanted to be.

  He patted around the bed behind him to locate his cell phone; it was never out of arm’s reach. He pinched it to light the screen and check the time. “Fuck me, it’s not even noon.” He forced himself to stand and stumble to the living room, his legs having not yet received word of his hair, popped as he stood. To normal people the day was in full swing, they were probably contemplating what fast food they would use, to quiet their belly monsters on their lunch breaks, but Ron kept the hours of vampires and hoot owls, and this was his equivalent of three o’clock in the morning. Few things got him out of bed at this hour, not even the need to piss like a racehorse; racehorse pissing could go in his book of idiotic catchphrases.

  It was this time of the day he would be inclined to answer the phone with “Someone better be dead.” and he usually did. Though, this time, he was glad he hadn’t, it had been his stepsister Martha and someone was dead. Truth be told, he really didn’t care if he had hurt Martha’s feelings, but the “better be dead” howdy, would have seemed tacky and he didn’t want to appear tacky to some hillbilly who thought a slice of lime in her Coors made her look worldly.

  He spotted a bottle of Beefeater’s by the TV, right where he couldn’t remember leaving it. He needed medicine, a cure. He smudged his tongue against the roof of his mouth and smacked his lips, he had been inflicted with an acute case of dragon breath; gin should wash the shit out of his mouth, whatever it was. Gin had put it there, so it only stood to reason that gin would be the perfect remedy. He picked up a glass from the coffee table, on his way to the gin and held it to the light. Always check for cigarette butts and dead flies, cigarette butts and dead flies, cigarettes and dead flies, the thought repeated itself, as many of his thoughts did when he was this tired.

  He poured the glass a few fingers deep and splashed the back of his throat with it. He was swishing it around in his mouth when he noticed the reflection in his flat screen, the gin attempted to go down the wrong pipe. Nolte was stretched out on his leather couch, clad only in a diaper, his flip-flopped feet resting on the arm and his fingers laced behind his head. Ron felt the bottle slipping from his hands and quickly gripped it, saving himself from an embarrassing cliché.

  He swallowed the gin in a clump. “No fucking way.” He whispered to himself. His brother Charlie believed the life after death bullshit about the coin, but Ron had chalked it up to a crazy woman with more money than sense. Even if it was true and it had brought the old coot back, he was three days early. Of course, Ron wasn’t completely familiar with how stringent the rules regarding returning from the dead were.

  “Get your feet off my couch.” He said still facing away, pouring more gin. The mouth of the bottle rattled nervously against the rim of the glass. Ron blinked hard and waited for the hallucination to pass. He fought the urge to click his heels and chant, “no place like home” and "wake the fuck up."

  Nolte lifted his legs and rotated, surprisingly spry, into a sitting position; his diaper squeaked and stretched against the leather of the couch.

  “That motherfucker better not leak.” Ron warned as he turned to face Nolte, “That couch is worth more than your car.” On the inside, he was scared that what he was seeing was going to turn out to be real; on the outside, he was as cool as the other side of the pillow. He had learned long ago; fear wasn’t your best foot forward when it came to Nolte. Not many feared the old man anymore, so when he got a taste, the old man relished it and held on to it like a snapping turtle, he wouldn’t let go until lightning struck, or he had bored you senseless with his verbal strutting and semi-intellectual posturing.

  “Relax, Creampuff, this one is brand newish.” Nolte cupped the crotch of his diaper, checking his package. “I’m fresh as a daisy and almost bone dry, for some reason I squirt a bit when I fast travel through the abyss,” Nolte smiled, removing the cigarette he had stuck behind his ear. “Gotta light, Nancy?” Ron pointed to a lighter on the coffee table, willing his hand not to shake. “Are you surprised to see me, Princess?” Nolte asked as he puffed his cigarette against the flame. Other than the geezer’s movements seemed more fluid and less creaky, he looked exactly the same as the last time Ron had seen him. Perhaps the alcohol stretched bags under the old man’s eyes sagged a bit more, but the old man didn’t look dead. Ron, though, not really interested in details, had often wondered what sordid tales Nolte’s past, kept in those sagging eye bags.

  “Yeah, a little. Martha called; she told me she found you dead this morning. She’s box of rocks stupid, but I’m sure she can tell the difference between dead, dying and alive.” Ron moved over and sat in the chair opposite of the couch. The crazy rich lady didn’t seem so crazy anymore. Nolte shifted and again his diaper creaked. “I’m serious, if that thing leaks, we’re going to have a problem. Why are you wearing a fucking diaper anyway, were they out of bed sheets with eye holes at the ghost supply?”

  “Looky, looky, someone is wearing his big boy pants; I remember when you used to shit yourself over the boogeyman and bumps in the night. Besides, you wouldn’t believe how comfortable a well-fitting diaper can be, Cupcake.” Nolte moved the sunglasses he had clipped to the waistband to one side and flicked the crotch twice with his finger, “Plenty of room for the ol’ package, too.” His Pall Mall fizzled audibly, drawing his attention away from his package. “Must have been a tobacco worm in that one.” For whatever reason a cigarette had to fizzle, Nolte always blamed tobacco worms; he smacked his lips as if he suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. “What little miss semen receptacle found, was my dead body. The old me, if you will, what you see before you now, is the new and improved and not quite dead me.” He took a long drag on his Pall Mall and tapped ashes onto the carpet. His gray tongue swept his lips to erase possible tobacco worm remains.

  “Burn a hole in that carpet and
we’re going to see if we can’t take you from the not quite dead you, to all the way dead you,” Ron warned, as he slid him an ashtray. “So why are you here? Does Satan have some moral standard you failed to meet?” Ron was no longer shaking; he wanted to jump on top of the old man and beat him silly for flicking ashes on his carpet.

  “I’m makin’ my rounds, Bitch.” The old fart leaned forward, “Do you mean to tell me, you’re not the least bit frightened that a dead man came a-callin’?” Nolte lowered his eyebrows and tried to look menacing.

  Ron chuckled, “Give me a break, geezer, a diaper-clad geriatric doesn’t really scream scary, and the new you, looks exactly like the old you. We stopped fearing that you a long time ago. Without a gun, your ‘crazy’ is weak and pathetic.” Ron tossed back the rest of his gin, “I was kind of expecting you.” He instantly regretted telling Nolte he’d expected him when he saw the old man’s eyes narrow. He quickly returned the conversation to the relatively safe topic of Nolte’s insanity. “Speaking of guns and your crazy, remember the ear flicking?” The ear flicking story never failed to piss Nolte off, and redirect his attention. “Flicking his ear probably wasn’t such a good idea in hindsight was it?” Nolte’s eyes narrowed, even more. “Did you come here to flick my ear, Old Man?”

  “Humph.” Nolte scoffed.

  “Have you seen Charlie since your passing?”

  “Fuck you, I was blindsided and you know it.”

  ***

  The boys had grown up watching Nolte wave a gun. To Nolte, the measure of a man was respect, but respect walked hand in hand with a pistol and a willingness to use it. There was nothing better to get one’s point across, than a nickel plated exclamation point stuck under an unreasonable child’s chin, if a right hook to said chin had failed to do the trick.

  By the time they were sixteen, the boys had outgrown Nolte by at least a foot in height and the punching had stopped. Nolte’s ‘crazy’ would not interfere with his sense of self-preservation and as painful as it was to admit, a punch would have resulted in an ass whipping, with him holding the non-winning end of the stick. The gun waving continued on for almost another year until the day of the ear flicking. The flicking of the ear brought an end to the gun. It was an end to the gun, at least as far as the boys were concerned.

  On Charlie’s seventeenth birthday, Nolte had started drinking earlier than usual and was in a fairly festive mood by noon. Charlie sat at the kitchen table, silently eating a bowl of Spaghetti O’s. Charlie kept Nolte interactions to a minimum. This never set very well with Nolte, he liked to be noticed and the more he drank, the more noticed he liked to be.

  Nolte leaned over and sang/whispered in Charlie’s ear. “Happy birthday to Chickenshit.” His warm breath reeked of beer and Pall Malls. “Happy birthday to Chickenshit.” Nolte switched ears. “Happy birthday dear Chickenshit. Happy birthday to you.”

  Charlie knew that by ignoring Nolte, things would turn ugly in a hurry, but he was in no mood for Nolte’s shit. He took another bite of Spaghetti O’s and tried to block out the stench of Nolte’s breath, which was still puffing in his ear. Nolte stood up straight, clearing his throat. Even though Charlie was facing away, he knew Nolte had struck his tough guy stance, all puffed out and peacocked. It was all part of his basic method of operation.

  “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Nolte reached out and flicked Charlie’s ear with his forefinger to emphasize the importance of his question. Instantly Charlie stopped chewing and stared ahead at nothing. “Got nothing to say, Birthday Boy?” Again he flicked Charlie’s ear. Charlie’s face grew beet red and he swallowed hard, the Spaghetti Os felt unusually large in his throat. “Uh oh, is Birthday Boy going to cry?” Nolte pouted in baby talk, as he flicked Charlie’s ear again.

  Charlie burst backward as he came to his feet, knocking Nolte back across the room. He came to rest against the wall, knees bent and arms extended to the front as if he had suddenly decided to do some squats. Nolte had traveled the distance in such a short amount of time, he felt like he’d occupied two places at once.

  A fraction of a second later Charlie’s fist smashed into his face. Nolte dropped to one knee, completely confused by the pain and the strange turn of events. He reached behind him and brought his trusty .380 out of his pocket, but before he could bring it to bear, Charlie punched him again and removed it from his hand. The transfer of the gun was so fast; it looked as if Nolte had been trying to hand it to him all along. Grabbing a handful of thinning hair, Charlie tilted Nolte’s head back and pressed the front sight of the pistol against his father’s lips. Nolte froze, paralyzed by the look in Charlie’s eyes, that told him that shit was about to go way south. ‘He’s going to hurt us!’ The little coward in Nolte’s head cried out in horror.

  “Did you brush your teeth this morning?” Charlie asked calmly. He pressed the barrel more firmly to Nolte’s swollen lips. “I asked you a question.”

  Nolte tried to answer with his eyes; fear was eliminating any chance of a verbal response.

  “Would you like me to brush them? Would you like to find out what gun smoke tastes like?” Charlie drew back the hammer until it clicked. He knew this wasn’t necessary to make the gun fire, but he wanted Nolte to truly appreciate the gravity of his situation.

  The sound caused Nolte’s eyes to dart as they tried to focus between the gun and Charlie’s glaring eyes. He slowly moved his chin from side to side, and mumbled, “No.” which sounded more like, “Mo.” Through his stretched lips.

  Charlie took a knee so he could look directly into Nolte’s face. “I want you to listen to me closely because I’m only going to say this once. Today was the last day you will ever lay a finger on either of us. The next time you raise your hand to me, it better be to wave goodbye, or I will kill you. If this fucking gun ever comes out of your pocket around me or Ron, you better hope it’s made out of chocolate, because I will feed this motherfucker to you in one bite. Your days of playing Joe Kidd are over. Now tell me you understand.” Charlie backed the pistol away from Nolte’s lips so he could reply. “Say you understand,” Charlie repeated.

  “I understand,” Nolte said weakly, tears of embarrassment welling in his eyes.

  Charlie stood and stared down at the beaten man who sat crumpled at his feet. Things should have never gotten to this point and he knew with all his heart, if he ever turned his back on this idiot, he would die. Charlie eased the hammer back into place and dropped the gun in Nolte’s lap. He turned and walked past Ron, who had watched the entire scene unfold from the doorway.

  “Holy shit, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, huh,” Ron said trying not laugh as Charlie passed.

  The next day Charlie was gone, but his message remained, from that day forward Nolte never laid a hand on Ron and the gun had disappeared. Stories trickled back to Ron of a drunken Nolte waving a pistol around at some watering hole, from time to time, but Ron never saw the gun again.

  “I’ll bet you could have used one of those fucking diapers that day, huh, tough guy?” Ron smiled at Nolte’s glare. “I’m surprised your little man syndrome allowed you to live as long as you did, your mouth was always writing checks your ass couldn’t cash,” Ron grinned, delighting in Nolte’s squirming.

  Nolte glared back at him intently, his face glowing red with embarrassment and anger. Slowly his glare took on a strained look, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of muffled gurgling from within Nolte’s diaper. “Fuck you, Candy-Ass,” Nolte said smiling, as he rocked from side to side on his butt. He rose and walked slowly to the front door. The back of his diaper swayed heavily and shit ran down the back of his thighs. “Send me the bill for the couch, Chickenshit.” Nolte opened the door, the sunlight reflected off his hairy beer gut. “My future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades.” He said squinting into the sun, as he slipped on Alice’s bug-eyed sunglasses. He half turned toward Ron, “One of these days, you’re going to learn to show me some respect.” Nolte walked out into the noonday sun, shitty diaper swaying and f
lip flops slapping at his heels. “And on the third day, he shall rise.” He said as he walked away. “On the third day, he shall rise.”

  Ron crossed the room and slammed the door behind Nolte, before examining the mess on his couch. “How in the fuck can a ghost shit his pants?” He asked himself, unable to believe what he had just witnessed.

  Pinching his cell phone to life, Ron called his brother. “He’s dead and he’s already back. You were right; the motherfucker came back from the dead.” He tried not to sound anxious, but the shit on his couch had Ron seeing red.

  “Who’s back from the dead, insane man, that called my phone?”

  “Nolte died and he’s back, that voodoo mumbo jumbo was fucking real. He’s back.”

  “What do you mean, he’s back? When did he die?” Charlie asked over the phone. “I thought you told me the witch said it would take three days.”

  Ron clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder as he shook the contents out of a small mason jar he had hidden beneath the kitchen sink. “I guess about six or seven hours ago, I dunno. Not long enough. The motherfucker was just here; he took a shit on my couch.” He said, dragging the more stubborn pieces of paper from the bottom of the jar with a pen. “The fuckin’ lawyer told me he wouldn’t be back until they prayed over his grave.” Ron picked a small piece of folded paper from the pile he had shaken out. “I’m going to swing through Louisiana on the way to Nolte’s; you need to hit the fucking road immediately, as in yesterday. You need to get to his house and find the coin before the Dogpatch bitches do.” Ron carefully unfolded the square of paper. “The receipt says that it’s silver; if you can’t find it, keep the strippers from finding it. I have an idea on how to locate it. One each, silver Shekel of Tyre 3BC, the fucking thing’s two thousand years old. It has to be the fucking ‘magic money’ he showed us. Nolte’s waiting on his three days; we have to find where he hid it. If those fucking hillbillies get their hands on it, they’re gonna sell it.”