by Alan Spencer
He dug into his suit pocket for the pack of "80’s Milds." He had to lure her in like a fish, and then later, he'd snag back the line when she took the bait. Assertive politeness got the stories, he thought, knowing Shannon Klenklen would be an easy victory.
“Here you go.” He lit the cigarette in her mouth with a silver Zippo lighter with a flame decal on the side. "Enjoy."
“You’ve got the good cigarettes. All I can afford are Stag or American Flag. Tobacco they’ve swept from the floors with dust bunnies and termites mixed in.”
He imagined the article in the “The Weekly Spectacle Digest”: Shannon Klenklen smokes herself into good health, says Surgeon General. Mrs. Klenklen was diagnosed with skin cancer, but smoking her off-brand cigarettes has cured her. There is irrevocable evidence that cheap cigarettes harbor a drug that has amazing health benefits.
He moved on from the random idea, what he suffered from on a regular basis during conversations and inopportune moments. “I’ll let you keep the pack and pay you too if you can give me solid information. I work for “The Weekly Spectacle Digest.” It’s a rag, I admit, filled with truncated stories about paranormal and bizarre incidents. If you’ve heard of urban legends, it can be along those lines too. I like cursed landmarks or strange looking houses as well.” He rubbed his pointer finger and thumb together. “The more you give, the more I give back. You lead me to people and information, and I can compensate you for your time.”
She squinted against the sun’s glare and lingered on the offer, shifting her weight to one foot. In a five second time span, she was convinced. “You’ve definitely come to the right place. I know everybody here, jus’ about. I’ve seen magazines like yours in grocery stores. I catch your drift. I’ll show you around town. How long does the job last?”
“I’m here two weeks." He was excited he wouldn't have to post the stack of flyers around town. He dreaded posting the information; that form of advertising attracted strange people and lots of phone calls, but his employer insisted he do so unless he could make a credible contact first. Perhaps Shannon could fill those shoes, he hoped. “You’re in a position to profit big time. Each case that can help me, I’ll give you two hundred dollars. That’s good money. For example, you give me six cases in one day, that’s twelve hundred dollars.”
Her face brightened. “When can we start?”
He tore down the two flyers he posted on the block. “Right now.” He handed her the pack of "80’s Milds." “And here’s your signing on bonus.”
3
Shannon relaxed in the passenger seat of his Sedan, making herself at home. She played with the green plastic alien action figure that dangled from his rearview mirror with an enlarged, hydrocephalic head and an aluminum foil outfit he hand-crafted himself. She was smoking her second cigarette, the window cracked to filter out the smoke. She promised a good story after asking for a two-hundred dollar advance. He had the cash and gave it to her, two crisp hundred dollar bills. She tucked it in her purse before he backed out from his parking space opposite the unemployment office.
After giving him driving instructions, she said, "There’s a man named Chip Douglas. Everyone calls him Chippie. He lives in the same neighborhood as I do. The area’s a lot of country roads, and cornfields, and dairy farms. We also have a cider mill; Birchum’s Cider Mill, actually. It’s Smithville’s Pride,” she pantomimed jacking off, “and it brings in a lot of revenue and tourists. It’s been there since Smithville existed, supposedly. Smithville apples put us on the map. Dale Birchum's a real apple fanatic.” She threw her head back, issuing a raucous laugh. “I swear he’d fuck a juicy red.”
He smirked. "I'm trying to picture it..."
“Back to Chippie, he claims Johnny Appleseed’s body is buried in his backyard.” She paused dramatically. “I’ve seen it."
He pictured a bag of bones with a knapsack poking out from under a grove of fruit-bearing trees. He also envisioned the man as an old coot with scowling eyes and a grit-smeared face who adorned a baggy pair of overalls with a bloodhound barking at his side.
His mind pumped article ideas at a moment’s notice, and this was no exception: Chip Douglas has discovered a relic of history in his backyard. Johnny Appleseed rests in Smithville, Kansas, near Birchum’s Cider Mill—a tourist hit. “The secret is in the seeds,” Chip claims, as he tears into the soft core of a juicy apple, “and the apples we eat were planted and fertilized by Mr. Appleseed’s rotting body.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re feeding me a crock of shit, but is there really a skeleton in Chippie’s backyard? Come on.”
She flicked her spent cigarette out the window, searching for a proper response. “It’s not a complete skeleton, but there’s a skull and sternum. The age of the clothes makes you wonder, but it can’t be the man himself, though Chippie insists it is." She shook her head. "Okay, okay, none of it’s real; I’ll be honest.” She changed subjects. “Hey, how did you get into your line of business anyway?”
“That’s a loaded question.” He clutched the wheel tighter, combing his mind for what it would take to sum up his situation from the past to the present. “Okay, I graduated with a journalism degree in Cincinnati. I worked as an intern for a local newspaper tracking reports, anything from misdemeanors to fall festivals. After my internship, I couldn’t find a job. I mailed out applications, went through dozens of interviews, and nobody wanted to hire me. And then my dad calls late at night from Scranton, Ohio, a small town about an hour’s drive from where I was living in an apartment,” his voice dropped, softening on a sad note, “but I wasn’t home when he called.”
He stopped himself. Was he about to pour out his heart to a complete stranger? He hadn’t spoken about his father to anybody, period.
“You don’t have to finish." She touched his leg, a friendly gesture. “You really don’t.”
“I suppose I should talk about it. You’re a stranger, right? I’ll be gone in two weeks. What does it matter?” He thought the hell with it. “My old man left a message telling me he’s kept a secret. He was dying from breathing in dust at the coal refinery plant; the doctor gave him four months to live. His lungs were in horrible shape. I never knew any of this until it was too late. He leaves a message wishing me luck in the world, and that he loved me. He rigged his gas stove and lit an open flame and killed himself. He was already in unimaginable pain, my neighbor confided in me. He could hear him coughing from a block away.” He shook his head. “God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“You should talk about these things, like you said.” She patted his leg again. “You’re only human. What else can we do with our grief, huh? Bottling it up only hurts you. I’m no psychiatrist...”
“Well, it messed me up for awhile, and I couldn’t get a job or pay my pills, and finally, I get a response from “The Weekly Spectacle Digest.” They offered a traveling job chasing obscure stories. They wanted somebody young and not tied down, and that was me.”
She gave him a genuine look of sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss.”
“It was two years ago. It’s been a hard road, but I’m having a blast now. I get to meet new people, like yourself, and travel. I’ve been to almost all fifty states, and it's been a hell of a ride, though sometimes it feels like the dust is beginning to settle. Tracking fake stories is starting to lose it's luster, you know, but hey, my employer pays for traveling expenses, hotels, food, and I’ve saved so much money from my paychecks, I’ve got a good cushion under me. It’s a good gig if you’re not into relationships or own property. I can’t get enough of the unfettered life."
“No shit it’s the unfettered life." She was impressed by his life story. “I recently lost my job at the Save Mart; the place closed down after they put in a Wal-Mart. I didn’t graduate high school, so it’s hard to find other descent work. My parents divorced, my mom skipped town, and I’m supporting my lazy-ass brother and Dad who are barely employed at the stock yard; they slaughter cattle. This gig
will really help me. I owe you big time.”
“There’s more money where that came from." He hoped she had the goods to carry them into many more stories. “Let that be an incentive.”
She wet her lips and punctuated it by giving an enticing smile. She uncrossed her legs and adjusted her dress. “I can always use the money. Be-lieve me.”
He intentionally glued his eyes to the road in a gentleman’s attempt not to stare at her legs, though it was a short-lived effort. Again, there was something attractive in Shannon he couldn’t place. He’d already opened up to her; she was his confessional booth. The soft banter was enjoyable and easy. What else would he tell her before their business together was done? That’s one benefit, he thought, to traveling in and out of people’s lives. If he embarrassed himself, he could move on.
And if you get attached to people, then it sucks.
He adjusted his attention to the background, dismissing the bittersweet notion. Farmland, dairy acres, and cornfields dominated the trip, what rolled on without anything impressive to steal his attention.
She instructed him to take the next exit, aiming her pinkie west. “I live in that trailer and mobile home park to the left with my brother and dad. It’s not fancy pants accommodations, but it’s a roof over our heads. I’d love to ditch them; they spend their money on booze and lap dances at that ramshackle shanty called “The Red Shed.” There are some things a father and son shouldn’t do together, I say.”
He kept his comments to himself. “So how far out before we reach Chippie’s place?”
“Five minutes.”
The trailer park came and went, and more interesting was the horse ranch with clusters of Shetland ponies and colts craning their necks up from the grass to peer at them as they sped by. He eyed the rusted out tractor trailer standing in the midst of wheat grass, abandoned. Weeping willows bobbed their narrow and bare frames in the breeze in many stretches. A two-story farm house was in a state of bare bones miles off on top of a hill. One more silo and another empty field later, they arrived at their destination, what turned out to be a bungalow style house. The driveway was gravel, and the yard was occupied by apple trees; clusters and clusters of them. He could barely see the powder blue painted shingles or the front porch because of the numerous apple trees.
This has to be Chippie’s pad.
“Is this—?”
“—how did you guess?” She undid her hair from the ponytail so it fell to her shoulders; he believed a woman’s attractiveness was best displayed with their hair down.
He parked at the top of the drive beside a rusted Studebaker. The apple trees cast silhouettes and buried the yard in shade. The Studebaker’s hood was propped open; the battery, serpentine belt, and a canister to catch motor oil were spread out on a canvas tarp. The mechanic was missing from the scene. Caleb searched for the homeowner and found that the front bay window of the house was cracked and patched up by duct tape. Another window sill was covered by a plastic sheet, and from inside, a wool blanket covered the hole. The porch swing had collapsed on one side and hung by a rusted chain from the other. “A well kept abode,” he whispered to himself. The only detail of the house well-maintained was the crisp American flag batting in the wind above the garage door on its post.
He squinted hard to make out five steel drums of spent shell casings, possibly from a pump-action shotgun, standing at the side of the house. The drums were up against a garbage compactor heaped with scraps of steel, namely broken lawn mowers, car bumpers and fenders, tricycles and bicycles, reams of barbed-wire and fencing, and random appliances.
“Is Chippie home? This man isn’t exactly...normal.”
“The screw’s are in, but they’re too tight." She walked towards the house, taking the lead. “Chippie’s a wannabe war veteran. He throws beer and shotgun parties with local war veterans to reminisce about Vietnam and Desert Storm. Can you imagine old crones firing guns in the air for no good reason? They’re hardcore Americans.” She raised her voice, adding a hick inflection into her accent. “They’d give der' left nut fer freedom.”
She spoke more about the man’s history. “Chippie was selected in the draft, but he had arrhythmia—his ticker wasn’t working right, so he was declined. He’s a war enthusiast, though. He promises he has the biggest collection of guns in Smithville, bigger than the pawn shop and Army Surplus Store’s stock combined. He won’t show anybody, so who knows if he's not blowing smoke.”
“What does he do with all that metal in that huge steel bin?”
Shannon was mad Chippie wasn’t answering his door. After seconds of waiting, they started back towards the car, and she replied, “He melts the steel down. He uses it to build his own guns. He also sells handcrafted garden supplies on the side too. Helluva craftsman.”
Ba-BAM!
The apple on the tree four paces from them imploded. They both went stiff, and Caleb shielded Shannon, the sweet debris dirtying his back. Shannon, enraged and shrugging him aside, scoured the horizon for the Chippie. “What the hell was that, Chippie? You can’t shoot at people! I know it was you god-damn it!"
His ears rang from the thundering blast.
“You dumb sum’bitch. You don’t fire in the direction of civilians. Don’t you have a code of honor? How about common sense, you dumb ass?”
He thought of an article idea, despite his racing processes:
Post-traumatic stress syndrome affects Chippie Douglas despite the fact he has never seen war. He rants about the Japanese and Pearl Harbor with gusto. His day-to-day enemies are droves of geese, armadillos, and his favorite, the apples from trees. Chippie believes with each duck carcass and opossum he collects, advances for democracy and freedom are made possible. “War without casualties is no war at all,” Chip proclaims. “That’s why I shoot first and shoot always!”
He rubbed his inner ear, the tunnel effect creating a locust’s drone. Infuriated, he studied the man who materialized from the ground. At first, he was only the glint of a rifle scope, and then he was moving field camouflage. Standing up, the man lowered the bolt action rifle in his hands. He removed the net of grass over his back, a cloak. Now, he was a simple man in a pair of black jeans and a green a-shirt. The strange fellow had the face of a hobo, the shadow of rough stubble that was axel grease black. His hair was completely gray with a bald circle at the back of his head. He was only one-hundred and fifty pounds, a man who gained most of his calories from drinking cheep beer and "Banquet" frozen dinners, he'd later learn. A bald eagle was tattooed on his left shoulder, and on his right bicep, it read: Bomb the Commies.
“Sorry about that,” he apologized in a raspy drill sergeant’s throat. “I can never be sure if you’re trespassing or just visiting. I didn’t recognize the vehicle. Salesmen have blacklisted me by now, and that’s the way I like it.” He pointed the muzzle at Caleb like a finger. “Your suit, young man, gives you away. My answer’s no to whatever you’re selling.”
He crushed an apple underneath his sand colored boots. “I hate these things. My property’s cursed. No matter how many times I chop ‘em down, the trees come right back. That’s why I just gave up.”
Shannon motioned to him that it was safe to follow her to Chippie’s standpoint. She raised her hands up, conceiting victory. “You won’t shoot us, right?”
The man lowered the gun. “What can I do for you, pretty thing?”
She cringed. “My friend wants you to show him the body.”
Chippie backed up a step and clutched his rifle tighter. “He ain’t FBI goin’ take my corpse, is he?”
“This is Caleb Anthony. He’s not law enforcement of any kind. He wants to take a picture. He works for a newspaper.”
He narrowed his hawk eyes. “So do you believe it’s Mr. Chapman’s corpse on my property?”
Caleb wasn’t sure how to reply, so he played it safe. “Um, if you mean Johnny Appleseed, yes, I believe it's him.” He winked at Shannon. “Shannon’s explained to me your situation. I wish to document
it.”
“It’s in the woods." He removed a tin of Big Bear Tobacco chaw from his pocket and tucked a wad under his lip. “The body's a short hike from here, if your nice shoes are up for it.”
Caleb agreed, hurrying to his car. “Let me get my camera first. My shoes are definitely up for the trip!”
He unlocked the back of his trunk. Shannon was beside him, but he didn’t notice her until she commented on the back-issue stack of “The Weekly Spectacle Digest." The topmost cover showed the profile of a man defecating in the woods under a spruce tree. The headline read: After chemical and breakdown lab analysis, Frank Gerkin’s poop does not stink. A fecal phenomenon!
“This is priceless. You wrote this? That’s so cool. Can I look at these later? I’d love to read them.”
“I’ll take you out for a late lunch, but let’s do this first. I’ll have my picture, and you’ll earn your advance.”
He snatched his black carry case and slung it over his shoulder. Sheltered inside was his 240 Canon digital camera. He carried flash drives for extra space. Also, there was a cell phone in case of an emergency, and more cash.
He was prepared for the journey with their war-ready guide. Chippie had disarmed himself, his hands now clutching a six-pack of Hark’s Red Band—and where he’d gotten the beer, Caleb was clueless—by the plastic rings. His finger bent back the tab, and he slurped the beer with fervor, licking up the foam from the edges. “It’s not everyday I get guests.” He raised the cans up to their faces like a fine vintage. “You guys want a beer?”
“I’m good,” he declined.
She shook her head. “I’m good too.”
“More for me.” Chippie pointed at the woods that formed in his backyard. “Johnny died near here, I know it. You can even ask Bill Bryerson; he’s a garden expert, and he said he’s never seen anything like it. It’s fuckin’ strange. These trees have no reason for being here. I didn’t plant them. Nobody else planted them. They just started growing.”
