5
That first step in the spiral at Crazy Ralph’s had been an inspired effort. Late one night, the foursome purchased all the lemons they could find, loaded up a truck and dumped it all on Crazy Ralph’s lot, blocking both entrances in a sea of oblong yellow fruit. Then they snuck into the garage and duct-taped all of the tools to the ceiling. The mechanics assumed it was a robbery until wrenches started trickling down from the ceiling, clanging to the ground. Rather than risk death by tool-sized hail, the mechanics grabbed some lemons from the entrance and made themselves lemonade. They sat outside the garage, sipping their drinks and waiting for Crazy Ralph to arrive. Ralph and the camera crews from two of the local TV stations arrived at the same time. When Crazy Ralph saw the mess he was furious. He drove his four-wheel drive Jeep right over the lemons and they squirted all over his cars, which just infuriated him more. The TV cameras filmed it all. Crazy Ralph took to screaming and his face turned beet-red. He said some things he probably shouldn’t have, and not just in the sense that his god might not approve, but the immagration authority, and several other lawful agencies found his rantings especially interesting when they saw them on the news that night. Crazy Ralph and the price slashing donkeys still have the low, low, lowest prices in town, but Ralph spends a lot of his time in court these days instead of near his fine fine fine driving machines.
Sherri, Ben, J and Sid had celebrated wildly that night. It had taken Sid nearly a week to clean up the kitchen. He scrubbed champagne off the ceiling. Sometimes he swore he was still finding sprinkles from that night’s Massive Celebratory Sundaes. How four people went through four cartons of ice cream and 2 jars of maraschino cherries, Sid will never know. Then again, he spent a good chunk of the celebration passed out from drinking a chocolate syrup and vodka combination that he swore he’d never try again. He woke up the next morning with a sticky chocolate frowny face on his abdomen, at least he thought it was a frown, a lot of the room was spinning and it’s possible his stomach was unstable as well.
Fueled by the success of their first triumph against Ralph, they were quick to strike a second time. Sherri had been quite disappointed that they hadn’t freed the donkeys, which was why J made sure that the next plan was especially vested in her interests. There was some discussion of freeing the animals at the zoo, but that seemed a bit cliche and if there was anything this group agreed on it was that they hated cliche. Cliche was almost worse than injustice.
J suggested they find something a little more cerebral this time around. Sherri grabbed the reins immediately and suggested they organize a literacy campaign. It didn’t have quite the sting and immediate impact of the Crazy Ralph adventure, but J knew that this group needed a diversity of projects and he knew he needed to keep Sherri engaged. He may have sucked at slogans, though no one told him so directly, but the man knew how to lead. Ben was less than thrilled, but J was able to point out the potential of such a campaign, not to mention offer Ben a chance to starting thinking about their next project. Sherri turned out to be a great organizer, she had libraries and schools calling Sid’s at all hours of the night. Sometimes it was really fortunate that Sid had never made any other friends and didn’t have roommates. Bleary-eyed, Sid would take messages and share them with the group the next afternoon. It made getting up and going to work tough on Sid, but he was as happy as he’d ever been. He was part of something. He didn’t care anymore that no one at work seemed to know he existed. He no longer felt so confined by his cubicle. Sid worked for Big Brothers/Big Sisters, but he was a paper pusher and rarely had the chance or took the chance to see what his work was doing for others. As far as Sid knew the forms he sent on with the approved stamp got disapproved by someone else. He had never had time to follow the trail. Even in a non-profit he was still just a cog in a wheel punching the clock at the end of the day.
Ben used his connections at NPR Cincinnati to get the “Reading Rocks” campaign some air time. He also found some local bands to play in a Reading Rocks Battle of the Bands concert they organized. He was pissed when he had to cut out a couple metal bands because Sherri decided they were a little too rough for school assemblies. Things were going so well that a lot of the project was eventually outsourced to various PTAs.
Sherri had set up school competitions with a words per student goal over the month of December. The winning school was to receive a large donation from MegaCorps and pies from Pippin’s. J had arranged for the pies.
Everything was going quite smoothly through December. Hamilton Elementary was leading Central High at an unbelievable clip of 25 words per student per day to Central’s 23. Some of the PTAs had set up after-school reading booths where parents, teachers, and students would read or help others read. Never before had Cincinnati seen such an outpouring of friendly competition. There was criticism, of course. Some parents felt that the children were being motivated improperly and others were disturbed with the books being encouraged. A reading list had surfaced at a few of the schools with a list of formerly “banned books”. It’s not clear where the list came from, but it seemed that it certainly came from someone on the inside. The PTA at Greuter’s Middle School was able to deflect most of the criticism, using Karen VonFosson’s mom’s Public Relations agency. Fortunately the four originators of Reading Rocks were able to stay relatively unnoticed. They figured they would need the anonymity later and they certainly weren’t in this for the fame. Though the success shocked even J.
Reading Rocks had distracted him through late November and half of December before the weight of the holidays began to bring him down. He’d glazed right over Thanksgiving, eating a tasty Tofurkey at Sid’s. He hadn’t bothered to call his parents and as far as he knew they hadn’t bothered to call him either. Maybe it was his lack of a leadership role in this project, or maybe it was the pies, but something was getting to J big time. Even his chilly morning walks weren’t enough to shake the dark cloud that was descending on J. He was down to a bowl of ice cream a week. His brisk walks were starting to look like strolls. Even Ben had noticed that he didn’t seem to have the same zest against injustice. To test his theory he made an off-hand comment about government spies and got zero reaction. His eyebrow raised inquisitively, but he didn’t know what to say, none of them did.
One lonely Sunday J wandered down toward the McCormick house. He hadn’t been back to see McCormick or Jimmie since his return to Cinci almost a year ago. He’d meant to of course, but he’d just never quite made it. J’s walk was dragging on and he started to wonder if maybe he was lost. He exhaled and watched his breath filter through his scarf and disappear. He looked around, but didn’t recognize his surroundings. He felt a little thirsty, but continued walking. Briskness had left him sometime last month. His walk slowed to a shuffle and his eyes no longer focused. He felt very weary. He made one desperate glance down a side street, but still didn’t recognize a thing. He felt so tired he decided he’d sit down and rest. As he drifted off he smelled a hint of snow and thought of the Christmas he could never seem to forget.
The Frosted Mini-wheats were gliding across the smooth table. His cousins were giggling and his aunt was smirking. His mom didn’t look pleased, but looking back he wondered if maybe she’d had gas or worse, a premonition. Something had to account for her expression. He stopped the study in friction and finished his cereal in a frenzy. He and his cousins leapt from the table and ran into the living room, taking a quick slide on the linoleum at the end of the hall. They slammed down next to the tree in a pile of squeals and giggles. At first they just sort of poked at presents and at each other, giggling and reading tags. As their impatience grew, the poking took a more balled-up fist sort of look, it might remind some of punching, not to be confused with the kicking their legs were doing. They would claim it was leg wrestling, but in the minds of adults the world over, it still looked like kicking. J’s dad had stopped on his way to the bathroom to tell them to stop their kicking. “Uh, Uncle Brian,” Dan had said, “It’s Christmas.” The steely parental look Uncle Brian, J’s dad, gave the three ended that plea. For a moment all three were quiet. They sat still, like the angels their parents wanted them to be.
It didn’t take long for all six eyes to return to the presents under the tree. One present, the largest of the year, was untagged. Dan had spotted it first and his brother Mark was quick to follow Dan’s lead. Not to be left out, Joseph (he was still Joseph then) joined them as they pulled it from under the tree. At first they circled the big golden wrapped gift, like they were in a game of ring-round-the-rosie. Soon their speed picked up and they were nearly running around the present. Dan started skipping and the younger boys followed. Each reached down and flicked at the ribbon, by then they had taken to chanting “We wish you a merry Christams” as they circled round and round. It’s probably why they didn’t hear the scuffle in the kitchen or the first few screams.
All three heard the second few. They were ear-piercing, shrill and terrifying. All three stopped skipping, grabbed hands and clenched their eyes shut as if that might shut out the sound they heard. If they were in a nightmare they couldn’t seem to find the way out. When they opened their eyes, Dan’s eyes may have been widest, but he moved toward the kitchen first. The other two followed quickly. They didn’t really have time to be afraid. Unfortunately, they should have been. No one should have to witness what they saw next.
There on the kitchen table covered in blood was Aunt Susan. J’s mom had just pulled the knife out of her chest, as two masked men in the doorway took one last stunned look in the family’s direction. J remembered very little from that day. It was like a kalediscope of horror. The red blood dripping onto the white and brown linoleum. The black masks, the whites of their horrified eyes. He could still hear the wails of his cousins as they screamed in fear. He could see his uncle twisted into a mess of fear, rage, and sadness. His Aunt groaned almost inaudible, and yet those groans seemed to cut through the wails of her sons. He never understood how his mom could act so calmly. She picked up the phone, her blood-soaked hands covering the phone with reddish-brown hand prints as she dialed 911.
The ambulance came, but it was too late. The police came too, but they had no more luck than the ambulance. Common criminals they said, probably just after some food and some of the morning’s loot. The cops genuinely apologized, but J hated them still. Even now he still couldn’t understand how they expected his aunt not to defend her own home. Neither could he understand what sort of desperation had sent men out to rob on Christmas, common criminals or not.
Joseph didn’t see his cousins after that Christmas. His Uncle moved them to the countryside in Western Minnesota. Christmas became a solemn occassion in the Jones household. The Santa myth, and more than his share of innocence, went out the door that December twenty-fifth.
When J woke up he was crying, parts of him were freezing and parts seemed especially warm. Even he was unclear which parts. All that and he was in bed. He felt woozy and lost. He looked up to find McCormick, a much-older looking McCormick, hovering over him.
“You look like shit,” McCormick grumbled.
“You’re no spring chicken,” J shot back.
“I see even death doesn’t stop you from being a jackass,” McCormick replied.
“It hasn’t stopped you for 10 years,” J laughed at his own witticism and then grabbed his side in pain. Then he sneezed.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. One of the regulars, Chuck, drug you in. Said you looked like you needed a place to crash. I couldn’t believe I it when I recognized your ridiculous goatee.”
“Says the man who won’t cut his ponytail.”
“You respected your elders when you left this place. It’s such a shame.”
“If you had any memory left, you know that isn’t true...”
J let out another sneeze, followed by three coughs and a series of wheezes.
“You better rest. No sense in killing you now,” McCormick grumbled with a bit of a smile. As rough as 21 years surrounded by this homeless lot had made him, McCormick still had a heart the size of Ohio. Sometimes it just took a while to get to it. It never took J long though.
He immediately fell back into a fitful sleep where he dreamed fitful dreams.
Surrounded by Spanish dancers clacking their morraccas together like children who didn’t know how they were played. The rhythmn soon turned to a clanging sound, like glass being hit on a wooden cabinet. J appeared in a hula skirt and a long sweater; the sweater was so long in the back that the undone yarn actually touched the ground. The clanging sound grew louder and J saw Matty’s face in the setting sun. The clanging continued as Matty disappeared over the hill with an enromous thud. The thud gave way to a thunderous wave of liquid. A blood red river washed over J and his Spanish dancers. Each dancer melted into a tiny orange man. His feet were so hot that he began to bounce almost in dance. He nearly stepped on the orange men, but they let out piercing screams and dodged his thumper-like merengue. The more he danced the more the orange men grew and morphed into his friends. Ben, Sherri and Sid stood around him and laughed as his long sweater began slowly to wrap itself around his legs and crawl spiraling up around his calves, then his knees, still he danced. The harder he danced the faster the yarn seemed to enclose him and the harder his friends laughed. He began to flail his arms wildly. All three joined him and togther the four high-stepped and flailed their arms. They bounced off one another like violent thirteen year-old boys in a mosh pit. They bounced higher and higher. Each flail became more like a flap of their wings. Each bounce drove them higher, as if the earth had become a high-powered trampoline. They hit the ground in unison, flapped their wings and soared through the butternut-flavored clouds. They were dipping and diving when Sid’s arm suddenly fell off. Unable to flap his wings, the other two were gripped with sympathy pains. J watched in horror as all three fell to the earth. He screamed but no sound came out.
Back in Sid’s kitchen, there were three pretty worried activists.
Sherri sat nursing a bowl of mint chocolate chip. Ben stood propped in the corner. He repeatedly picked up the liquid remains of his cookies and cream and let it slide out of his spoon and back into his bowl. Sid paced. Sometimes he’d look at the refrigerator like it had trapped J inside, but most of the time he just circled the kitchen as if the table were a porch light and he were a one-winged moth. For almost an hour, no one had said anything. J had been missing for two days. They’d checked the hospitals without finding anything. They were worried because they weren’t sure J carried identification with him anyway. They hadn’t found any police reports on a John Doe though. They’d checked out J’s normal haunts. Sid’s kitchen mostly. He was definitely not in Sid’s kitchen. They called Matty and left a message, but hadn’t heard back from her. There was some debate about calling J’s parents, but the vote had been unanimous that such a course of action was unwise. They’d called the temp agency that occassionaly employed him, to no avail. They were low on ideas. Sid had suggested calling the police, but took it back as soon as the suggestion left his lips. No matter what shape J was in, he didn’t want to see the police. J was not a big supporter of the police. FFPs he called them- Filthy Fuckin’ Pigs. No, the FFPs were not likely to help them find a grown man after he’d gone missing for two days, even if it was winter. Silently they all wondered exactly how long they could sit there.
“Sid, you’ve got to sit down,” Ben finally erupted. “You’re driving me insane!”
Sid wasn’t happy about it, but he sat down. He lasted all of three minutes before he was up and pacing again. This time in the opposite direction. Ben walked over to the sink, chucked his bowl in and headed for the bathroom.
to 6
Sherri, Ben, J and Sid had celebrated wildly that night. It had taken Sid nearly a week to clean up the kitchen. He scrubbed champagne off the ceiling. Sometimes he swore he was still finding sprinkles from that night’s Massive Celebratory Sundaes. How four people went through four cartons of ice cream and 2 jars of maraschino cherries, Sid will never know. Then again, he spent a good chunk of the celebration passed out from drinking a chocolate syrup and vodka combination that he swore he’d never try again. He woke up the next morning with a sticky chocolate frowny face on his abdomen, at least he thought it was a frown, a lot of the room was spinning and it’s possible his stomach was unstable as well.
Fueled by the success of their first triumph against Ralph, they were quick to strike a second time. Sherri had been quite disappointed that they hadn’t freed the donkeys, which was why J made sure that the next plan was especially vested in her interests. There was some discussion of freeing the animals at the zoo, but that seemed a bit cliche and if there was anything this group agreed on it was that they hated cliche. Cliche was almost worse than injustice.
J suggested they find something a little more cerebral this time around. Sherri grabbed the reins immediately and suggested they organize a literacy campaign. It didn’t have quite the sting and immediate impact of the Crazy Ralph adventure, but J knew that this group needed a diversity of projects and he knew he needed to keep Sherri engaged. He may have sucked at slogans, though no one told him so directly, but the man knew how to lead. Ben was less than thrilled, but J was able to point out the potential of such a campaign, not to mention offer Ben a chance to starting thinking about their next project. Sherri turned out to be a great organizer, she had libraries and schools calling Sid’s at all hours of the night. Sometimes it was really fortunate that Sid had never made any other friends and didn’t have roommates. Bleary-eyed, Sid would take messages and share them with the group the next afternoon. It made getting up and going to work tough on Sid, but he was as happy as he’d ever been. He was part of something. He didn’t care anymore that no one at work seemed to know he existed. He no longer felt so confined by his cubicle. Sid worked for Big Brothers/Big Sisters, but he was a paper pusher and rarely had the chance or took the chance to see what his work was doing for others. As far as Sid knew the forms he sent on with the approved stamp got disapproved by someone else. He had never had time to follow the trail. Even in a non-profit he was still just a cog in a wheel punching the clock at the end of the day.
Ben used his connections at NPR Cincinnati to get the “Reading Rocks” campaign some air time. He also found some local bands to play in a Reading Rocks Battle of the Bands concert they organized. He was pissed when he had to cut out a couple metal bands because Sherri decided they were a little too rough for school assemblies. Things were going so well that a lot of the project was eventually outsourced to various PTAs.
Sherri had set up school competitions with a words per student goal over the month of December. The winning school was to receive a large donation from MegaCorps and pies from Pippin’s. J had arranged for the pies.
Everything was going quite smoothly through December. Hamilton Elementary was leading Central High at an unbelievable clip of 25 words per student per day to Central’s 23. Some of the PTAs had set up after-school reading booths where parents, teachers, and students would read or help others read. Never before had Cincinnati seen such an outpouring of friendly competition. There was criticism, of course. Some parents felt that the children were being motivated improperly and others were disturbed with the books being encouraged. A reading list had surfaced at a few of the schools with a list of formerly “banned books”. It’s not clear where the list came from, but it seemed that it certainly came from someone on the inside. The PTA at Greuter’s Middle School was able to deflect most of the criticism, using Karen VonFosson’s mom’s Public Relations agency. Fortunately the four originators of Reading Rocks were able to stay relatively unnoticed. They figured they would need the anonymity later and they certainly weren’t in this for the fame. Though the success shocked even J.
Reading Rocks had distracted him through late November and half of December before the weight of the holidays began to bring him down. He’d glazed right over Thanksgiving, eating a tasty Tofurkey at Sid’s. He hadn’t bothered to call his parents and as far as he knew they hadn’t bothered to call him either. Maybe it was his lack of a leadership role in this project, or maybe it was the pies, but something was getting to J big time. Even his chilly morning walks weren’t enough to shake the dark cloud that was descending on J. He was down to a bowl of ice cream a week. His brisk walks were starting to look like strolls. Even Ben had noticed that he didn’t seem to have the same zest against injustice. To test his theory he made an off-hand comment about government spies and got zero reaction. His eyebrow raised inquisitively, but he didn’t know what to say, none of them did.
One lonely Sunday J wandered down toward the McCormick house. He hadn’t been back to see McCormick or Jimmie since his return to Cinci almost a year ago. He’d meant to of course, but he’d just never quite made it. J’s walk was dragging on and he started to wonder if maybe he was lost. He exhaled and watched his breath filter through his scarf and disappear. He looked around, but didn’t recognize his surroundings. He felt a little thirsty, but continued walking. Briskness had left him sometime last month. His walk slowed to a shuffle and his eyes no longer focused. He felt very weary. He made one desperate glance down a side street, but still didn’t recognize a thing. He felt so tired he decided he’d sit down and rest. As he drifted off he smelled a hint of snow and thought of the Christmas he could never seem to forget.
The Frosted Mini-wheats were gliding across the smooth table. His cousins were giggling and his aunt was smirking. His mom didn’t look pleased, but looking back he wondered if maybe she’d had gas or worse, a premonition. Something had to account for her expression. He stopped the study in friction and finished his cereal in a frenzy. He and his cousins leapt from the table and ran into the living room, taking a quick slide on the linoleum at the end of the hall. They slammed down next to the tree in a pile of squeals and giggles. At first they just sort of poked at presents and at each other, giggling and reading tags. As their impatience grew, the poking took a more balled-up fist sort of look, it might remind some of punching, not to be confused with the kicking their legs were doing. They would claim it was leg wrestling, but in the minds of adults the world over, it still looked like kicking. J’s dad had stopped on his way to the bathroom to tell them to stop their kicking. “Uh, Uncle Brian,” Dan had said, “It’s Christmas.” The steely parental look Uncle Brian, J’s dad, gave the three ended that plea. For a moment all three were quiet. They sat still, like the angels their parents wanted them to be.
It didn’t take long for all six eyes to return to the presents under the tree. One present, the largest of the year, was untagged. Dan had spotted it first and his brother Mark was quick to follow Dan’s lead. Not to be left out, Joseph (he was still Joseph then) joined them as they pulled it from under the tree. At first they circled the big golden wrapped gift, like they were in a game of ring-round-the-rosie. Soon their speed picked up and they were nearly running around the present. Dan started skipping and the younger boys followed. Each reached down and flicked at the ribbon, by then they had taken to chanting “We wish you a merry Christams” as they circled round and round. It’s probably why they didn’t hear the scuffle in the kitchen or the first few screams.
All three heard the second few. They were ear-piercing, shrill and terrifying. All three stopped skipping, grabbed hands and clenched their eyes shut as if that might shut out the sound they heard. If they were in a nightmare they couldn’t seem to find the way out. When they opened their eyes, Dan’s eyes may have been widest, but he moved toward the kitchen first. The other two followed quickly. They didn’t really have time to be afraid. Unfortunately, they should have been. No one should have to witness what they saw next.
There on the kitchen table covered in blood was Aunt Susan. J’s mom had just pulled the knife out of her chest, as two masked men in the doorway took one last stunned look in the family’s direction. J remembered very little from that day. It was like a kalediscope of horror. The red blood dripping onto the white and brown linoleum. The black masks, the whites of their horrified eyes. He could still hear the wails of his cousins as they screamed in fear. He could see his uncle twisted into a mess of fear, rage, and sadness. His Aunt groaned almost inaudible, and yet those groans seemed to cut through the wails of her sons. He never understood how his mom could act so calmly. She picked up the phone, her blood-soaked hands covering the phone with reddish-brown hand prints as she dialed 911.
The ambulance came, but it was too late. The police came too, but they had no more luck than the ambulance. Common criminals they said, probably just after some food and some of the morning’s loot. The cops genuinely apologized, but J hated them still. Even now he still couldn’t understand how they expected his aunt not to defend her own home. Neither could he understand what sort of desperation had sent men out to rob on Christmas, common criminals or not.
Joseph didn’t see his cousins after that Christmas. His Uncle moved them to the countryside in Western Minnesota. Christmas became a solemn occassion in the Jones household. The Santa myth, and more than his share of innocence, went out the door that December twenty-fifth.
When J woke up he was crying, parts of him were freezing and parts seemed especially warm. Even he was unclear which parts. All that and he was in bed. He felt woozy and lost. He looked up to find McCormick, a much-older looking McCormick, hovering over him.
“You look like shit,” McCormick grumbled.
“You’re no spring chicken,” J shot back.
“I see even death doesn’t stop you from being a jackass,” McCormick replied.
“It hasn’t stopped you for 10 years,” J laughed at his own witticism and then grabbed his side in pain. Then he sneezed.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. One of the regulars, Chuck, drug you in. Said you looked like you needed a place to crash. I couldn’t believe I it when I recognized your ridiculous goatee.”
“Says the man who won’t cut his ponytail.”
“You respected your elders when you left this place. It’s such a shame.”
“If you had any memory left, you know that isn’t true...”
J let out another sneeze, followed by three coughs and a series of wheezes.
“You better rest. No sense in killing you now,” McCormick grumbled with a bit of a smile. As rough as 21 years surrounded by this homeless lot had made him, McCormick still had a heart the size of Ohio. Sometimes it just took a while to get to it. It never took J long though.
He immediately fell back into a fitful sleep where he dreamed fitful dreams.
Surrounded by Spanish dancers clacking their morraccas together like children who didn’t know how they were played. The rhythmn soon turned to a clanging sound, like glass being hit on a wooden cabinet. J appeared in a hula skirt and a long sweater; the sweater was so long in the back that the undone yarn actually touched the ground. The clanging sound grew louder and J saw Matty’s face in the setting sun. The clanging continued as Matty disappeared over the hill with an enromous thud. The thud gave way to a thunderous wave of liquid. A blood red river washed over J and his Spanish dancers. Each dancer melted into a tiny orange man. His feet were so hot that he began to bounce almost in dance. He nearly stepped on the orange men, but they let out piercing screams and dodged his thumper-like merengue. The more he danced the more the orange men grew and morphed into his friends. Ben, Sherri and Sid stood around him and laughed as his long sweater began slowly to wrap itself around his legs and crawl spiraling up around his calves, then his knees, still he danced. The harder he danced the faster the yarn seemed to enclose him and the harder his friends laughed. He began to flail his arms wildly. All three joined him and togther the four high-stepped and flailed their arms. They bounced off one another like violent thirteen year-old boys in a mosh pit. They bounced higher and higher. Each flail became more like a flap of their wings. Each bounce drove them higher, as if the earth had become a high-powered trampoline. They hit the ground in unison, flapped their wings and soared through the butternut-flavored clouds. They were dipping and diving when Sid’s arm suddenly fell off. Unable to flap his wings, the other two were gripped with sympathy pains. J watched in horror as all three fell to the earth. He screamed but no sound came out.
Back in Sid’s kitchen, there were three pretty worried activists.
Sherri sat nursing a bowl of mint chocolate chip. Ben stood propped in the corner. He repeatedly picked up the liquid remains of his cookies and cream and let it slide out of his spoon and back into his bowl. Sid paced. Sometimes he’d look at the refrigerator like it had trapped J inside, but most of the time he just circled the kitchen as if the table were a porch light and he were a one-winged moth. For almost an hour, no one had said anything. J had been missing for two days. They’d checked the hospitals without finding anything. They were worried because they weren’t sure J carried identification with him anyway. They hadn’t found any police reports on a John Doe though. They’d checked out J’s normal haunts. Sid’s kitchen mostly. He was definitely not in Sid’s kitchen. They called Matty and left a message, but hadn’t heard back from her. There was some debate about calling J’s parents, but the vote had been unanimous that such a course of action was unwise. They’d called the temp agency that occassionaly employed him, to no avail. They were low on ideas. Sid had suggested calling the police, but took it back as soon as the suggestion left his lips. No matter what shape J was in, he didn’t want to see the police. J was not a big supporter of the police. FFPs he called them- Filthy Fuckin’ Pigs. No, the FFPs were not likely to help them find a grown man after he’d gone missing for two days, even if it was winter. Silently they all wondered exactly how long they could sit there.
“Sid, you’ve got to sit down,” Ben finally erupted. “You’re driving me insane!”
Sid wasn’t happy about it, but he sat down. He lasted all of three minutes before he was up and pacing again. This time in the opposite direction. Ben walked over to the sink, chucked his bowl in and headed for the bathroom.
to 6
posted by David at 8:34 PM
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