The District Manager (2 page)

I can’t help but dwell on the meeting I’ve just left as I head east into the big town. No matter what its good intentions, government is a bully. The collateral damage nearly always disproportionate to its benefits. But something happens to people after they get elected to office. In reality, there are no good guys. Maybe at some point in the past there were, but not anymore.

The closest thing to a good guy is me.

And what is it that I do?

I’m Mason Dixon—really. I’m the District Manager for House District 100. Nobody knows what I do, and that’s the beauty of it. Nobody sees me coming. And what
do
I do? If you’ve got a problem with a government agency and can’t get anywhere …if you’re tied up in red tape…maybe I can help. It doesn’t matter if you are having trouble renewing your driver’s license or a family wants to see a loved one, one last time before they die in prison. I will go to bat for you. It isn’t political—far from it. Some English author once said, “Heroism begins where politics ends.” That’s me. Nobody knows what I do. I can help anyone, anyone but me that is.

Back at the apartment, I shed my slacks for shorts, my golf shirt for a wife beater, and my cowboy boots for flip-flops. The A/C is inadequate everywhere I go at this point. This apartment being an all bills paid complex, it means they skimp. The place is pretty barren, as most of my furniture is still at the cabin in the country.

I open the refrigerator and savor the cool, crisp air. I rub a chilled bottle of beer over my sweaty forehead. But I don’t dare open it.

The cat makes her appearance. She hops up on the counter and looks at me in her enigmatic peculiar fashion. It’s like she’s studying me. Clarissa is her name. She was my wife’s cat. We never really took to each other, but lately the two of us seem to be growing on one another. I open a can of pungent Fancy Feast and she gobbles it up. I now think we might have a special relationship. Growing up, I never had cats, only dogs. After my wife was gone, my boss said I should get rid of her. I just couldn’t. So when I split the country, I brought her with me to the apartment. I think we’re helping each other adjust.

I’m ready to chill. Even though I don’t have anyone to spend it with, I’m on the cusp of a three-day weekend. I pour some Jack over a few ice cubes. I light up a smoke after I plop down on one of the only pieces of furniture I brought from the country. Clarissa is perched on the leather arm, her nostrils flaring and contracting in disapproval.

I’m flipping channels when I realize I left my wallet up at the District Office, which is some thirty minutes away.
What if I need more Jack?
I wonder. I start to worry when I realize I’m only four fingers full.
I’ve got to go retrieve it.

The traffic outbound is awful. I sit behind a propane truck, my mind wandering. I start thinking about Brenna. An interesting observation I’ve made: since Ann departed, women seem to be everywhere—checking me out. I’m anything but the lone, hungry wolf. It’s an odd paradox, because since Ann left, public officials, other than my boss, want nothing to do with me.

When I finally pull up to the District Office it’s getting dark out. This sucks. Why? The D.O. is haunted. No bullshit, it’s creepy. Our office is housed in the center of Fort Bryan, in the historical district. The building we rent is as old as anything for fifty miles. It’s situated in a complex of buildings, constructed around the turn of the last century. The D.O. is in an old bank, in fact. The walls are several feet thick. They had to be, so as to withstand a dynamite attack. The place looks like a citadel. All the buildings on our block are connected in typical early twentieth-century fashion. What’s interesting is that they are connected by a labyrinth of internal passageways as well. I’ve only ventured their stairwells on one occasion— too creepy. Anyway, according to local lore, the building that the D.O. sits in was once held up, with several people getting killed. It’s said that it’s haunted by these victims. I fucking believe it. We share the place with an oil and gas company, but this late nobody’s here.

I nervously hunt for the right key under a friendless light. Even in this quasi-urban environment I hear the crickets and frogs crescendo and die in perfect rhythms. When I get inside there are no lights on. It is dead silent. I’m too stupid to have remembered a flashlight. I run my hand along the wall, searching for an otherwise familiar switch. The sudden illumination is initially as terrifying as the preceding darkness. The hallway to our D.O. is only sparsely lit, and guarded by French doors. There is no hall light. Before I’m engulfed, I’m smart enough to locate the correct key to our office. Blackness that could rival oblivion awaits me. Expecting to find a maggot ridden visage ready to tear my face off, I hit the office light immediately.

Not this time. I begin rummaging through my desk, looking for the mislaid wallet. It is nowhere. Fortunately, I have a pistol stashed in the one of the drawers of one of the filing cabinets. Not for the ghosts, mind you…but for me. If that fails, I can always slit my wrists with one of a multitude of knives that decorate the conference room across the hall. That’s right: knives as decorations (remember, this is politics).

I feel my boot hit something beneath the desk. Luckily, it’s my wallet and not a severed hand. I exhale my anxiety. The relaxed air has barely passed my thirsty lips when I detect a flashing light on the phone. Someone has called.

I’m officially on holiday at this point, but I scored and kept this gig because I work hard. How hard is it to pick up the receiver and dial the voicemail? Packing a cig on the desktop, I listen. The voice sounds Yankee:

“Yes, Mr. Dixon, this is Julius Reynolds. I’m calling about an issue concerning a pit bull farm not more than a few hundred yards behind my home. I live just outside of Bowers, in Wagoneer County. The farm is actually an old rodeo arena. The arena is open air so you can hear them barking. I have some pictures I’ve taken that I have mailed to you at the address I found on the Texas House website. I hope this is the right address. Will you please call me regarding this issue? We have several families with small children in the area. I have contacted the county and they say there is nothing they can do, as no laws are being broken. Again my name is…”

The cigarette I’m handling between my thumb and index finger beckons for a light. The liquor store is in need of my patronage.
Why do I feel compelled to call this man right now?

“Yes, this is Mason Dixon, District Manager for House District 100, I just listened to your message about the pit bulls…How can I help you, Mr. Reynolds…?”

“Yes sir, I am so glad that you returned my call. I really don’t know where else to turn. I’ve contacted just about every county official there is and no one seems to think this is of interest.”

“Have you contacted any animal cruelty organizations?”

“Yes, yes I have, but they said that no laws are being violated as the dogs are on leashes and have access to food.”

“I see. What would you like us to do?” I continue to pack the cigarette on the desktop. It’s now that the absolute darkness of the hallway starts to work its black magic.

“Well, Mr. Dixon, I’m not sure. Have you received the packet of information I sent to your office?” I peer over at the inbox and see it sits unopened.

“Not yet, but I haven’t checked the P.O. Box in a few days,” (an obvious lie). “The post office is closed by now, but I’ll check in the morning.”

“They won’t be open tomorrow, sir. It’s the nation’s birthday.”

“Right, I’ll run by on Saturday, I mean.”

“Well, frankly, I’d like to show this place to you if you don’t mind. I think after you actually see it, you will be shocked. It really is a perversion, Mr. Dixon. Not to mention a threat to the public. We have families with small children in the area.”

“Yes, I heard your message.” I’m now paying more attention to the hallway than to the conversation at this point. “If you like, I’ll review the materials and give you a call this weekend.”

“Yes, yes, yes, that would be wonderful. I really appreciate your attention to this matter, Mr. Dixon.”

“It’s both my job and my pleasure, Mr. Reynolds.”

I hang up the phone and stuff the well-packed smoke between my lips. The whole path down the dark hallway has me feeling like there’s something, or someone, right behind me. As I unlock the rear door, a breath of cold air suddenly slaps the back of my neck! I jump. I shriek—shamefully… …it’s the air conditioner kicking on.

I dwell on things, particularly work. I always have. It’s one of the things about me that drove Ann crazy. The irony was that the more I would dwell on work the less I would dwell on Ann.

I awoke that Fourth of July with a horrendous headache. I needed something to eat but there was only molded bread in the apartment. I wasn’t about to try the cat’s Fancy Feast— not yet...

One of the great things about living in a city is the proximity of eating establishments. When in the country, the wife and I had at least a ten-mile trek to the nearest gas station. However shitty the neighborhood where I now live, at least there’s a Whataburger across the street.

I sit in the establishment waiting in agony for my breakfast taco. The Jack is eating a hole in my stomach. I lifted the Julius Reynolds envelope last night before barely escaping the D.O. Instead of listening to Dwight Yoakum and Tom Petty all night, I sipped bourbon and reviewed the materials therein. What I see is fucked up, to say the least.

The pictures that Mr. Reynolds has taken are disturbing. Pit bulls, some twenty of them, are littered about the rodeo arena’s dirt floor. Though a few have actual dog houses, most are sheltered only by makeshift lean-tos. Chains confine them to an area of only a few feet, with disgusting bowls of slop just barely in reach.
How in the hell could no one find a problem here?
The dogs that are in view look barely sustained. Marks are visible on a few, even from the distance that the photos were taken.

I’ve brought the materials with me into the Whataburger. I’m flipping through the packet for a refresher. I have to put them aside because it’s nudging the oncoming nausea.

I call Mr. Reynold’s after I eat. Upon return from the local VFW, he calls me back. We make arrangements to meet tomorrow.