The Magazine for all things horror
click on the button
below
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
By James McMenamin
Skid needed a job really badly. Times were tough these days in the Windblow
household. His father, having retired prematurely due to a few bulging back
discs, was becoming unrecognizable. It was routine now to see his bodily frame
merge with the couch upholstery. His head, arms, and legs jutted out of the
fabric, as if part of some alternative museum exhibit. My Windblow's glazed
over, eyes fixated 24/7 on the television set. He didn't even bother changing the
channels anymore, and Mom was long gone to the place of no return.
Skid Windblow figured it was his time to shine. To him, getting a job would
change everything. Being at home caused a lousy aching feeling. He was too
old for paper routes or mowing lawns. Skid aspired for something substantial, a
position upstanding and steady, whereby people in town might say, "Hey, there
goes Skid Windblow: Pizza Man," or "Ain't that Skid Windblow, our new Ice
Cream truck driver?" He craved for the days of looking people directly in the
eyes, nodding hello, and tipping his hat while greeting other folks in town.
Skid tried really hard. He browsed through the classified ads, most of which
posted 1-900 numbers, or offered training for different types of trades, none of
which he found appealing. Undaunted, Skid decided to go the old fashioned
route by pounding the pavement. "One way or another, this Windlbow is going
to make something of himself," he reckoned while knotting his only tie. His
father said the tie, colored with peculiar designs was made in a country that
produced silk.
Upon reaching town, after walking the few mile stretch of road, Skid realized his
mission wasn't going to be easy. Not a single Help Wanted sign was in sight.
This meant knocking on doors and ringing bells till someone gave him an offer;
a proper respectable offer indeed.
Seated on a curb, his sandy hair falling over his acne scarred complexion,
Skid's knuckles grew sore, and his patience was wearing thin. It was then a
voice bellowed from a passing truck. "Hey there young man, I heard you're
looking for some work."
"Well yeah. That'll be me."
"Hop in son."
"Hold on. What is it I'll have to do?"
"Just hop in, and I'll fill ya in on all the details. My, that's a mighty fine tie you're
wearing. "
"Thanks. I wore it today in the hopes of finding a job. I guess it worked."
"What we're going to do is drive up this house and pay a visit to a couple of my
clients. When I give the signal, you get out for the truck looking all official-like,
cause we're here on business. I'll pay you $50 and you probably won't need to
say a word. By the way, you are a Windblow aren't ya? What's your name,
Son?"
"It's Skid. Skid Windblow."
Well, this seemed like honest work and no hassle at all, Skid thought. Being
paid $50 for standing still and keeping quiet, now that was something he had
experience with, but had never been paid for.
"Oh, one last thing Skid. When you're standing by the truck, take hold of this
shotgun and level it at the head of any summabitch that tumbles out the front
door. It's not loaded. It's just a necessary part of us being there meaning
business and showing who's in control."
"I see Boss. I only want to prove I'm a motivated worker is all. Do you think I
can include this job on a resume if I have one typed up for me?" asked Skid.
"Now Skid, don't get ahead of yourself. This is simply a side project, and you're
what is called an independent contractor. I'm sure you'll win over someone at an
interview, just buck up and fulfill your duties," answered the Boss.
They reached the house. The driver ran out, unlocked the back, and retrieved
four cans of gasoline. He charged suddenly like a psychotic rodeo bull, while
making a mad dash around the house splashing the flammable liquid around its
perimeter. He performed this act without hesitation, then proceeding towards
the rear of the house.
Two men exited the front door looking bewildered, their nostrils picking up the
scent of gasoline. They set their sights on Skid Windblow. The burly younger
man's puzzled frown instantly altered into a mean and menacing snarl.
"Hey boy! Whatcha doing? Don't you hear me? I'm asking you a question,"
shouted the elder of the two.
Windblow didn't answer at first, and then blurted out "Stand back. See my tie!
We mean business. I have a job now."
His new boss re-emerged bearing a smile, an empty gasoline can, and a box of
long wooden matches, one match already in hand and in position to strike.
'OW ell look who we have here, Buddy Lee and his fat tub son Mickey . You
know what you owe. Now pay up! All your dilly-dallying is through. You boys
are gonna be roast meat, or if you're lucky enough to dance through the flames,
everything you own or have known will be nothing but ash. So what's it gonna
be Buddy lee?"
"Aw heck," replied Buddy Lee. "I never thought you'd resort to this you shifty
rascal bastard. Shit! I tell you what. I got about half of what I owe. I can throw
in some of my wife's jewelry, and three of my rifles. You've seen em. They're
worth it. So we got a deal? Just tell your partner here to back off with that
shotgun pointed at fat Mickey's head. "
Windblow stood motionless like a private awaiting his orders.
“Ease up a little Skid," said the Boss. "It looks like they're being compliant. I'm
going inside with Buddy lee. If what he's offering tallies up right, we'll be on our
way. Mickey, you sit still here on the grass. I don't want any tricks from you. By
the way, nobody light a smoke or this place will be charring like a grill."
The Boss shook hands with Buddy Lee on the front porch. He carried a duffel
bag, which he hoisted into the back seat. Windblow heard him whisper, "This
job went a lot smoother than I thought. Are you alright, son"
"Yep sure am. Am I still working? When do I get paid?"
"Hehe. The fellas in your family tree are all the same. You follow any port in
the storm. You'll get your pay during the ride back to town when I drop you off."
"Say we all even? Everything copasetic?” called out Buddy Lee.
"Yeah. You've done good Buddy lee. It's all friendly like again. Don't forget to
give the outside of this house a good hose down.."
“In that case umm, Me and Mickey got a service we need to attend this
weekend. I was noticing that handsome tie your boy has. Suppose I can have it
as a throw in for my own?”
"Hehe. Sure. Give him the tie Skid."
Skid loosened his tie, his prized tie, and handed it over to Buddy Lee.
On the ride back to town, the Boss slapped $50 in Skid's palm. He tossed in
another $2 to compensate for the lost tie.
"Boss, I like working and all, but I'm not sure if I'm cut out for this sort of thing."
"I got that feeling from you right off the bat Skid. I just needed a new man real
quick. You're not a strong armed guy. This was a one shot deal. So, ya have
other plans do ya?"
Skid felt a little uneasy revealing his ambitions, especially to an employer, a
man he'd only known for a couple of hours.
"I kinda fancy myself as a Pizza man. I figure I can watch, and help out at
Crusty's until they can take me on as an apprentice."
"A Pizza man it is then Skid. That's right noble of you. Some day when I stop in
at Crusty's you just make sure to put some extra cheese for me, ya hear?"
"Sure thing, Boss."
Skid strolled down the length of road towards home. after being left in town. His
collar was undone. He had that feeling of completion and tiredness from having
money in his pocket after finishing his first day as a working man.
After slamming the door shut, he called out. "Hey Pop, I done worked today and
made me some money."
The static from the television set hummed steadily. Facing the T.V was the relic
of a person sandwiched in the sofa with mouth agape. It was difficult to
distinguish the separation of this rotting piece of furniture with the recently
expired body. Mr. Windblow had always been a man of few words. His words
lessened more with time until this final silence arrived. Skid Windblow reached
over and turned off the television set.
He sat down on the kitchen floor, arms folded over his knees. Skid thought
about rolling his hands in fresh dough and molding it into a pie. He imagined
pouring tomato sauce and littering onions, sausages, mushrooms, and anchovy
toppings over his creation. He couldn't wait to wear the funny white hats they
wore at Crusty's. Some money would come his way too, money to invest in a
new couch and a whole set of designer ties. He continued sitting, taking slow
deep breaths, confident a promising future was in store.
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
