The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (26 page)

Billy Wayne had a tall wood stool in front of him as he stood on the contortionist’s platform. People lounged in the bleachers across from him, scooping the last of their vanilla pudding
.
The midday sun had heated up
the tent, and even with both
flap
s
drawn open, the smell of hot manure was
powerful
.

“Good afternoon.
”
Bill Wayne began
each daily speech
the same way. “I’m not going to talk about garbage, although we do need to watch the canal up on the north end, since the wind has been blowing papers into those weeds and it’s getting pretty bad.
”

Billy Wayne wanted to address his recent discovery that the ten port-o-potties were being emptied into an old water truck and then driven
in extremely illegal pre-dawn missions
to the neighborhoods off Great Bay Boulevard to be dumped. Instead, he decided to keep this meeting entirely positive.

“N
o, I’m here with important news.
”
Billy Wayne
wished
he hadn’t worn his suit jacket, since it had gotten hot as heck in here
and smelled like zonkey shit. Sweat was running down his
back and he
had to
ke
e
p wiping
his forehead on his sleeves. Billy Wayne reached down and hoisted a sturdy steel toolbox onto the stool in front of him. He took a small key from his jacket pocket, twisted it in the lock, and lifted open the lid as it faced him. “In just a little more than one month,
”
he scoop
ed
up rubber banded thousand dollar stacks of mostly five and ten dollar bills, “We have profited more than twenty thousand dollars.
”

There were hoots and mummers and holy-shits from nearly all the workers.

“I’ll take my share now!
”
someone called out.

“Hey, I want mine, too!
”

“And it will be yours.
”
Billy Wayne pointed
to someone in the front row who hadn’t said anything. “And yours and yours and yours, too. But if we divided the dollar bills among everyone, it would be just an extra couple weeks of salary, and then where would you be?
”

Billy Wayne could almost see the rusty machinery
grinding
inside the heads of the people who were looking up at him. He knew some were imagining the endless bottles of middle-shelf booze, while others had already undressed the real hookers they were going to be able to score
.

“You dumb fuckers will blow it all on booze and whores,
”
Mrs. Rooney glumly added.

Billy Wayne paused to draw upon step number forty-eight.
Ensure
the decision you want them to make is the only reasonable conclusion.

“We can split this money up, or we can put it toward making this place our permanent home. Sure, we could s
pend it on repairing the trucks.
”
Bill
y
Wayne gestured
toward one of the mechanics who responded with a nod. “The big trucks have a lot of miles on them and need more work than they’re worth. Good money after bad.
”

“The one Peterbilt needs a new Allison, and the Freightliner’s goddamn differential’s all fucked to hell. And that don’t
…
”

“Thank you!
”
Bill Wayne called to the mechanic, who looked around
,
embarrassed.

“Lotta things broke,
”
the mechanic quietly added.

“So I bring a
very important decision to you.
”
Billy Wayne placed the toolbox next to his feet
and then
formed
the stacks of bills into a pyramid. “Do we fix the trucks and split up any remaining money, or do we dig in and build a home?
”

Billy Wayne’s own rusty machinery had been grinding away, imagining the beautiful air conditioned building
where he would
minister to his flock. He pictured a pulpit of sorts, with a large portrait of himself on the wall behind. There would be a kitchen, with an oversized refrigerator stuffed with ice cold sodas and big tubs of chilled pudding. There would be a real bedroom, with a downy bed that didn’t reek of piss, where he could surely convince the contortionist, his lovely and exotic
Amira
, to come visit. Billy Wayne stood behind the stool
stacked with
cash, shifting his legs to conceal the beginnings of another erection. The lack of a lockable door, or any door for that matter, had made Billy Wayne’s masturbation ritual an often interrupted affair. More times than not, he was left to relieve himself while on his side, late at night, facing away from the tent flap
,
which never properly closed. His new bedroom would have a solid door with an excellent lock, Billy Wayne dreamed.

It was the sulky reporter who spoke up first. “I grew
up in a place kind of like this.
”
Bagg addressed
the people surrounding him in the bleachers. “We also started out with tents and built some basic shelters
that
were good enough to keep us warm all winter. You people with campers just need kerosene, right?
”

“I’m tired of all the packin’ up,
”
someone in the back
shouted
.

“The animals sure like it here,
”
said another.

“I’m not sure I have a vote,
”
Bagg said. “But I’d vote to give this place a chance.
”

Billy Wayne made a mental note to thank the reporter later, then waited a couple of minutes for the idea to completely settle with the roustabouts. He watched the resignation come across the faces of the men who’d already
mentally
spent their windfall on imaginary high-class hookers. Or maybe even on the forty dollar variety.

“We’ll put the matter to vote.
”
And Billy Wayne
raised his own right hand. “Raise your hand to vote in favor of staying.
”

One after another, hands were raised. A few people who had been
suffering
intolerable hangovers had to be elbowed in the ribs, but the motion carried almost unanimously. Billy Wayne stood behind the pyramid of cash
that
he now saw as a down payment on a dream he couldn’t have begun to imagine when he first swiped
How
t
o
B
ecome
a
Cult Leader
i
n 50 Easy Steps
from the library.

Triumphantly, Billy Wayne scanned the crowd of jabbering circus people, finally catching the eye of
Amira
Anne. She was sitting next to the reporter, dressed in frumpy gray sweats, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. What a perfect wife she would make, Billy Wayne thought. His heart ached at the simple beauty of this woman. A woman who could twist and stretch in so many heavenly
mann
ers. When my cathedral is complete, I’ll ask her to marry me, Billy Wayne fancied, not noticing that
,
hidden behind the hulking body of the fat lady in the bleachers,
Amira
’s tiny and delicate hand was firmly clasped in the reporter
’
s.

“Then the last order of today’s business is to decide on a new name to christen
our island.
I think we could come up with something more adventurous, more inviting to the magic of our home than Fish Head Island, don’t you think?
”

There were no offers. Billy Wayne prodded some more, while in the back of his mind hoping perhaps the reporter would suggest Hooduk Island, in honor of the man who had made this all such a success. “Maybe something
which
describes the family that we’ve become?
”

“Save your breath, douche bag, an
d just call it Fuck Head Island.
”
Mrs. Rooney
rose
from the third row of bleacher seats with a flourish, pushing people out of her way as she stomped down the metal stairs and stormed out the mouth of the tent. She made a quick u-turn
and
pop
ped
her head back in to add
,
“It smells like zonkey shit in here
, you assholes
.
”

Billy Wayne lifted the toolbox back onto the stool and began replacing the cash. “We’ll
work on the name.
”
P
eople began to file out into the sun.

All the hammering wasn’t doing Warden
Flint
’s throbbing head a bit of good. From a couple hundred yards it wasn’t particularly loud, but the monotonous beat went on and on, sinking an imaginary nail deeper and deeper into his left temple.

Flint
took full responsibility for his current condition, which had him laying face down underneath his pickup truck, naked except for one work boot on his right foot. Thank Christ for all the poison, or he’d have been eaten alive spending a warm August night in the middle of a marsh,
within
spittin’ distance
of
the Atlantic Ocean.

Flint
reached down to adjust his testicles and scratch his ass.

That dopey little Hooduk had been bringing by those convenient plastic bottles of vodka
that
didn’t break when you fell down a flight of stairs, or whatever, but last evening
had been
Christmas if there ever was one.

Flint
was
sitting on the front steps of the ranger shack when Hooduk pulled in and began wrestling a big box out of his trunk. His eyesight had been crap for years, but
Flint
could read the red letters on the white box, even before Hooduk freed it from the back of the Dodge.

“Stolichnaya,
”
Flint
read, but his initial excitement was tempered with the thought that it was probably just a used box from the liquor store. No way had the little turd dropped three hundred bills on the good stuff. But Hooduk lugged the sealed case up the steps and gently placed the box next to the game warden.

“You’re a good man
.
”
Flint
actually meant it. In fact, the little fart of a preacher had kept his word when it came to ridin’ his people
to
pick
up
their
trash, and
makin’
sure the port-o-potties were cleaned out regularly.

“Well, I’m a fair man, at least.
”
Hooduk took
a seat on the top step, the case of vodka between the
m
. “I wanted to let you know we’re stayin’ on a bit.
”

“I figured as much
w
hen I seen the lumber roll by.
You just keep them people on a short leash. I see them kids pluggin’ gulls with pellet
rifles again and I swear to God.
”

“It won’t happe
n again.
”

A little investigating by Flint had uncovered that a
pair
of
boys had dismounted and unchained what was actually one of the dol
lar-a-try automatic bb guns from the
target shooting game. If
a
player was able to completely annihilate the red star at the center of the target with a hundred pellets, they won a stuffed prize. The boys had swiped the rifle, hook
ed
it up to a bottle of helium they’d come across in one of the storage trucks, then headed down to the edge of
the inlet for some live target shooting
.

Mrs. Rooney
had
not
been
a happy barker when she discovered the weapon
missing
from one of her more profitable attractions.
I
t
didn
’t take
her long to locate the two
piece
-
of
-
shit
boys
using the long,
birdsho
t
-
filled tubes to load the rifles, blasting away at the
dumb
birds. The boys had either maimed or killed four seagulls and
had
just finish
ed
another reload.

“You little sons-of-bitches!
”
Mrs. Rooney snatched away the freshly loaded weapon. The
boys were
kneeling in the wet sand, laughing and having a good old time taking turns, but now they cower
ed
below the nasty old witch. And the nasty old witch
was
pointing a loaded automatic pellet gun at them.

“You nutless little cretins got any last words?
”
She
took
aim at one of their foreheads.

“Run!
”
o
ne of the boys
shouted
, and they
did
just that. First scrambling to their feet, old sneakers sliding and not getting an immediate grip, the two boys made their cartoonish getaway back toward the circus tents. Mrs. Rooney picked up the helium tank and
bega
n
pursuit, her blue
housedress
flapping in the wind, her mass of gr
a
y hair bouncing all around her head.
A group of circus folks, Bill
y Wayne included, had gathered watching from next to the kiddy coaster, as the two boys ran for their lives.

*
*
*

Warden
Flint
had discovered the dead birds later that afternoon, and he wasn’t the least bit happy. It wasn’t just a matter of a few dead seagulls. Hell, there were little balls of dead gulls all over the place. So many, that you started not even seeing them after a while. They were along the highway, washed up on shore, and here and there out in the marshes. Seagulls were probably the least endangered bird on the planet, and the world could certainly do with about a billion less of them. But once one showed up dead from birdshot, the proverbial shit was headed straight for the fan. You could drive over a flock of them with a goddamn Sherman tank and the State wouldn’t blink an eye or bother to lend a shovel to scrape them up. But shoot even one of the mangy fuckers and you had a
full
-
fledged federal case on your sorry hands.

Flint
went
back to his truck to grab the shovel out of the bed and very quickly buried the birds before tracking down Hooduk.

The expensive case of vodka went a long way
toward
smoothing things over, but it would only take one little fuckup to kick the legs out from under an arrangement
that
currently suit
ed
everybody just fine.

“It’s all of our asses on the line,
”
Flint
told Billy Wayne
.
He
ran a long, dirty thumbnail down the top of the case, cutting through the tape seal and removing a bottle. The warden cracked the screw top and took a hard sniff of the clear,
faintly
-
scented alcohol. “Like water.
”
He
tilted the bottle up and drained a third of it.

Everything after that was just bits and pieces of grainy images.
Flint
had a vague recollection of trying to take a punch at Hooduk, but also had some memory of hugging him really hard, telling him he loved him, maybe even kissing him on the mouth. There was also something about his truck keys and having a hardy need to run his poison
-
mister around the marsh. Something about being bitten on the ass had sent him into a rage. Alcohol was a wonder drug, but it sure could fuck you up something fierce. It got to
the point
—
after years of practicing the art
—
that
as long as you didn’t wake up in the slammer, then all was fine in the world. Feeling like an asshole about what you did when you were under th
e influence was a waste of time
and easily cured by cracking open a fresh bottle.

Waking up under the truck,
Flint
’s first sensation was that of feeling the need to adjust his balls, and something was making his ass itch. The
head
-
thumping pain rushed at him when he shifted his body to scratch. Where his clothes had gotten to was a mystery to be solved later, but he figured he’d at some point taken refuge under the truck to get out of the sun.

If only they’d quit that friggin’ hammering.