Pick o' the Day: The Grackle Catcher (cont.)

            “Hello?  Anybody home?”  Hank’s dream was, as usual, taking a weird twist.  The pack of tigers that were chasing him around the inside of his old elementary school had cornered him in the boy’s bathroom, and he was making a last stand by barricading himself in one of the stalls.  Since the flimsy aluminum door did not go all the way to the floor, he could see the immense paws of the tiger chieftain as it stood there, in front of his stall, peeking at him through the half-inch crack, and he could hear it snuffling at the lock.  And then it spoke again, this time much louder.  “I said, hello?  Anyone home?”   The tone of the tiger’s voice was so disturbingly nasty that it actually woke Hank up, and he realized, despite his mental  fogginess, that it was coming from outside his pop-up tent trailer and not from inside his head.  He tried to raise his body to a sitting position, but he found he was weighed-down by three very chubby cats, and one kitten, who were dozing on top of him.  “Come on, get off me, guys!” he rasped, his throat parched by a long night of sonorous mouth-breathing.  The cats reluctantly moseyed off to another corner of the tent and immediately went back to sleep.  Whoever was outside was now pounding on the flimsy aluminum door of the tent trailer, causing the whole rickety contraption to shake.  “Who is it?” Hank shouted as he hurriedly pulled on a faded Mighty Mouse t-shirt and a pair of hopelessly wrinkled khaki cargo shorts.

            “It’s me, Merle!  Is that you, Wendt?” said the rather unattractive and obnoxious voice outside the door.  “I gotta talk to you, man!  Open the door!”  It was Merle!  Merle Zitzky!  Hank’s nemesis since the third grade!  What in the world was he doing here?

            Hank opened the door and stepped out into the blazingly bright Saturday morning sunlight.  There stood Merle, in all his 400 pound, clip-on-tie glory, leering at him from behind a cheap pair of sunglasses and puffing on a Pall Mall, his huge man-boobs and doughy muffin-top waist puffing out his overly-tight short-sleeve shirt.  Merle was an assistant manager at the neighborhood B-U-T-T-S Superstore (affectionately called “Big BUTTS” by the grocery-shopping locals), a position that had taken him three times longer to attain than most other employees who had similar aspirations, but it was a position that he, nevertheless, had finally attained.  And standing next to him was one of the store’s crack security guards, Lester Guy, a skinny, pimply-faced toad, who was trying to look mean and tough, even though, as usual, his zipper was down.

            For a moment, Hank felt dizzy as a series of long-repressed memories flashed through his cerebral cortex: encountering Merle for the first time in 3^rd grade when they were both approximately the same size; Merle challenging him to a fight after school; Merle wanting to box not knowing that Hank was a skilled rassler; Hank showing Merle that rassling always trumps boxing by putting Merle in an unescapable headlock and causing his nose to bleed; Hank finding that Merle left him alone for a long time after that; Merle then proceeding to grow at twice the rate of a typical elementary school student; Merle using his gargantuan size to gleefully terrorize everyone in the school, including the teachers; Merle dropping out of school in 9^th grade (thankfully) and then disappearing for a long time, only to return to the neighborhood years later as a semi-sobered-up night stocker at B-U-T-T-S.  Hank shook his head to stop the flashbacks, then looked up again at his two unwelcome visitors and asked, “What do you want?”

            Merle was definitely there for a reason, but he was in no hurry to reveal it.  “So this is where you live, huh Hank?”  he sneered.  “I heard rumors you lived in a tent, but I didn’t believe it ‘til now.”  Hank did not respond, but he knew then this encounter wasn’t going to end well.  Merle looked disappointed that he didn’t get the response he was looking for, so he decided to get to the point.  “Look man, it’s about the birds.  You need to stop messin’ with ‘em.”  He took another drag on his cigarette, looked at Lester, and smiled.  Lester did his best to maintain his scary face.

            “I’m just helping you guys out by encouraging the birds to leave.  Your customers are happier, and the birds are happier, too,” said Hank, calmly, though he felt his blood pressure rising fast.  “It’s better than doing nothing, ain’t it?”  Merle and Lester started snickering, and then they both broke out into full-fledged laughter.  “You ain’t doin’ nothin’ catchin’ them things,” chortled Lester, breaking his silence.  “I take care of three times more of ‘em than you every night.”  He patted the pellet gun holstered to his belt and grinned.  “Whaddya think of that?”

            Hank felt his hands turning into fists, but he kept his arms at his sides.  “I think you need to leave.”  Merle took another drag, blew the smoke on Hank, and said, “You stop messin’ with them birds.  We see you messin’ with ‘em again, we’re goin’ to kick your ass.”  He flicked his cigarette butt toward the tent trailer.  “Let’s go, Lester.”  The two of them walked away, laughing.  Hank watched them exit the backyard and then looked towards the house.  He saw “Hoolia” looking out her back screen door with a frown on her face.  Evidently, she had witnessed the unpleasant encounter, and Hank hoped he hadn’t caused her any worries.  What he didn’t see was “Hoolia” silently uncocking her Glock 19 semi-automatic as she returned to her kitchen.

            He turned and wearily sat down on a weathered lawn chair.  He put his hands over his face, feeling as if life had just sucker-punched him in the gut again.  His attempt at meaningful public service was important to him, and he didn’t want to stop doing it.  And to think what would happen to the birds if he wasn’t there to convince them to leave for a better place than the B-U-T-T-S parking lot.  Unbearable.  Tears began forming under his closed eyelids.  And then the first whiff of smoke hit his nostrils.  It smelled like burning canvas!  Jumping to his feet, he turned to his pop-up tent trailer and gasped!  It was on fire!

(Next week:  The Grackle Catcher continues as Hank risks his life in an attempt to prevent a catastrophic explosion.)