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Fickster the Fixer

by

D. M. S. Fick

Read this story at Cowboy Jamboree.

Before embarking on my homage, I reread Friedman’s A Case of Lone Star and so the style and references of that book are the ones I reflect on most in this story. You might catch some of the similarities: Calling a telephone "the blower", starting a phone conversation with "Start talking.", multiple paramours with numbered names, Jameson whiskey, plenty of musicians, twists on song names, and the author as main character. Two of the Kinkster's albums are referenced within the story.

As my last name is Fick, it just seems natural to make the main character the Fickster, although I have to admit, she's a bit more rambunctious than I am (but just a bit.)

I hope you enjoy reading my story. I sure had fun writing it.

I Want to HEar It from You

This is a story I submitted to a publication that requested pieces inspired by Texas singer/songwriters. I chose the fabulous guit-steel artist Junior Brown. Mr. Brown is not originally from Texas but he’s lived there quite long enough to qualify. This story is most influenced by the music from his Semi-Crazy CD. You really need some Junior Brown songs in your music library, so if you don’t already know about him, do check him out.

I WANT TO HEAR IT FROM YOU

by

D.M.S. Fick

“Darlin’, I’ll do anything you say.”

Joe paused, like she’d pick up and tell him what that might be. But of course she wouldn’t. He was leaving a message on her cell phone.

He couldn’t think of another word, so he hung up. Ironic, because he’d hung up so many of his bad habits since he’d met her. Just not enough, he supposed. What else could it be?

He hadn’t seen her for a full week. Didn’t leave a note, or a text. Nothing. Was she even getting his messages? Maybe her voicemail was full. He was semi-crazy with worry.

She hadn’t come home at all, he was pretty sure. Unless she was coming in during the day while he was at the school, but even then he didn’t think so. He’d stretch a new piece of tape from the door to the jamb every day and it was never broken. He’d had to leave through the front door like a heathen to keep the trap set, to no avail.

What if she’s been kidnapped or had an accident? Here he was moping and she could be in serious trouble while he’s doing nothing because he’s a big insecure baby.

He trudged over to the counter and shook the last of a box of cereal into a bowl. It was the bland stuff. She was the one who always made sure the groceries were restocked. Now he he’d even finished the last of the good-for-you-but-boring food. He got a carton of milk out of the ice box and checked its heft. Was it the same as yesterday? Had she been here during the day and diminished the dairy supply? He couldn’t rightly tell. It felt lighter maybe. Maybe.

He baptized the cereal and carried it to the kitchen table, stubbing his toe on the empty guitar case leaning against the wall. Joe steadied the case as it threatened to totter over and fall. When he removed his hand, he revealed fingerprints in the coating of dust.

Should he call the police? They’d likely take one look at him and say, “Son, that girl’s just plain done with you. Go out and get yourself a dog now. They gotta be loyal if they wanna stay fed.” And why shouldn’t she leave him? What did he have to offer? Grown man talking long about making it big as a musician. “Stick with me baby. It’s bright lights and purple M&Ms from here on out.” Closest thing he’d delivered on the flash front was a large pepperoni and olive from the Leaning Tower of Pizzazz.

He choked down his cereal while the coffee brewed.

But had she left him? I mean, she couldn’t. It was her house. A two-bedroom bungalow with a one-car garage and a rusty-hinged screen door. That’s how she’d described his voice once; she’d meant it as a compliment. Said it was unique; said it oughtta be irritating but instead was plaintive, melancholy. She said she liked it. Not lately though. Lately she’d said every time he opened his mouth he complained like a rusty hinge. So he’d ruined that he guessed. He didn’t sing for her anymore, not since he got kicked out of the band.

In any case, her breaking up with him was a problem not just in the love department but in the home one too. No way could he move out. No way could he afford first and last month’s rent plus damage deposit on his janitor pay. Cue the jokes about musicians, girlfriends, and rent. But surely that just applied to bass players and drummers. Well, not Mike Mills––or Kevin Smith––certainly not Sting. Just drummers then. Not guitarists.

Joe tipped back the near-empty bowl to his mouth and drank the dregs of milk.

“Oh, lord!” He choked on some sandy cereal grains. He coughed and coughed until his throat cleared.

What if she was giving him time to find a place?

He shoved back his chair, poured the brewed coffee into a thermos, and tramped through that rusty-hinged door, returning to put a fresh strip of scotch tape on it, then scooting out the front entrance, like a heathen, forgetting to pack a lunch.

Joe heaved himself into his ancient pick-up and turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over like a champ. Good Old Paint. He shifted into reverse and the truck lurched and made a horrible metallic grating sound followed by a thud whereby it then killed. Joe tried to restart it but Old Paint was going nowhere. Joe hung his head and wished he had a dog.

He got out of the cab and looked around the perimeter of the truck. Couldn’t see anything amiss. He didn’t have it in him to look underneath. He hoisted his girl’s bike off the garage wall, dropped the thermos into the flowered basket, and rolled the cycle outside. Onward to the school. If he was smart about it he’d get there on time.

Joe dragged his bucket and mop to the south hallway. Some kids had staged a sort of firefight using Coke for ammo. They’d hightailed it before anyone caught them, but they left a big enough mess all right. Joe put up the Caution Wet Floor signs and started mopping up the sticky slough. He swayed the mop head in a smooth arc, back and forth, back and forth. He started to hum with the rhythm of it and it felt good.

The vile percussion of teenage tittering broke the spell.

“Joe the Singing Janitor!” chided one.

“Whaddaya singing Joe? Gonna go on TikTok?”

“Loser!” muttered another.

Hahahahahahahahahaha.

Joe shook his head. “Custodial work is an honorable profession,” he said. He knew he shouldn’t have said it; it would only make things worse, but these kids should have that seed planted in their sad malleable brains.

“Ooooooh,” they mocked as they jostled each other closer to the wet floor. “The singing janitor’s mad. Gonna sing the blues now? Waaahhh! Boo hoo!” They jostled some more.

Joe noticed one of the boys hanging back, edging away from the puberty posse. They made eye contact. “Now get away from the floor kids. You slip and you might crack your head open. I’m serious.” He was. He’d seen it in a training video. The boys laughed. They grabbed the boy who was trying not to be seen and wrestled him towards the wet floor.

“He did it!” They gave him another shove. “He pissed his pants. That’s what you’re cleaning up Song Man.” Hahahahahahahaha!

“Well I’ll tell my boss it was y’all threw that Coke all around. Won’t get you kicked out of school, but it’ll be detention for sure. Explain that to your folks.” It was a pretty lame threat, but it stalled them, long enough for their capture to shrug himself free and run into the nearest classroom. Joe stood up to his full height. The boys hadn’t realized Joe was actually tall, that janitorial work promoted strong shoulder and arm muscles. It was maybe best they cut to a new scene. Their yelled derisions faded as they dispersed down the corridor.

Joe considered maybe he should look for a different job, a different school anyway. This sort of thing always grew as it rolled downhill. He waited for the floor to dry some, then rolled the bucket back to the supply room, leaving the Caution signs up. It was near enough break time so he took his cigarettes outside, back behind the mower shed, like he was a young punk. He lit up.

“I seen you sing before.”

Joe jumped. He looked to his side and there was that kid, the evasive one.

“I mean, I heard you sing. But I seen you too. How are you supposed to say that?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m not a teacher.”

“But you’re a musician. I seen you. Heard you.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s that?”

“The Choke Bar.”

“What’s a kid like you doing at the Choke Bar?”

“My mother’s a waitress there.”

“Then she saw me the night I got kicked out of my band most likely.”

“Yeah, she did. I saw you that night too. I go there kind of a lot. They serve food so I can be there. It’s all legal. That’s what they tell me. I help clean up the place sometimes. Like you, I guess.” He laughed, a small laugh. He wasn’t very old. Hardly a teenager. His voice didn’t squeak, but only just.

“You like music?” asked Joe.

“Oh yeah. I’m gonna be a musician.”

“That so?”

“I need a teacher though.”

“Ah.”

“They just call it the Choke Bar,” said the kid. “It’s actually the Chokecherry Bar and Grill. There’s a sign and everything out back of the patio. It got wrecked in a storm and they didn’t put it back up.”

“Huh. What’s a chokecherry? Don’t think I’ve ever heard of that before.”

“I don’t know. Owner’s not from Texas. Maybe they have ‘em where she comes from.”

Joe took a drag off his cigarette. Was it okay to smoke in front of a student if he was the one who interrupted you?

“Hey,” said the kid. “I know a musician joke. What do you call a guitarist without a girlfriend?”

Joe winced. He remembered the whole joke now.

“Homeless.” The kid laughed and laughed even though it was likely he didn’t get it. Joe wondered how he’d ended up in this Reuben Kincaid/Danny Partridge conversation. “My mother told me that one.”

“Your mother play bass?”

The kid just stared.

“Listen,” said Joe, “you should probably get back inside. If anyone sees you out here with me, they’ll think I’m a pervert. I could lose my job.”

The kid went ashen. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

Joe shrugged. “It’s bad enough they think it’s funny I sing. If they think I’m a pedophile . . .”

“It’s not funny you sing. You’re good. I’ll go though.” The kid turned and ran back to the school.

Joe finished his cigarette.

At the end of his shift, Joe unchained his girl’s bike and plopped his thermos back into the basket. He looked at the silk flowers entwined around the white woven structure. He looked at the bike’s sloping crossbar, the part of the frame that said “the owner of this bike wears a skirt.” He was shaken from his thoughts by rapid footfalls. The kid now stood very close to him.

“You’re back. Didn’t I tell you––“ The kid stood mute, his face full of fear. Joe looked around. The puberty posse stood twenty feet away. The kid was out of breath. The posse looked like they were waiting for their prey to stray from the herd. Joe, staring at the punks, lifted the bike out of the rack, bounced it up and down a little bit, lifted it to his shoulder.

“Those kids after you?” asked Joe. The kid nodded. Joe let the bike fall. It hit the pavement with a threatening clang. The posse stepped a few steps back. Joe steadied the bike. “Do you take the bus?”

“Not today,” said the kid.

“You live far? Can we walk there?” The kid nodded. “Lead the way then.”

They set off walking, Joe rolling the bike beside the kid. He looked around now and then to make sure the wolf cub pack wasn’t following.

“You want a sandwich?” the kid asked. He commenced to gathering ingredients onto the kitchen table. A dog ran in from the living room. The kid ruffled its fur, then opened the kitchen door and let the dog out. He wrinkled his nose and squinched his eyes. The house was modest, but there were splashes of creativity here and there, like framed skteches, handwritten quotes from books stuck to the refrigerator. Joe had read some of those books.

“Naw. I should go. Your mother be home soon?” He turned towards the door, then his stomach complained. All he’d had for lunch was a Chick-O-Stick he found in his locker from who knows when.

“Sure you don’t want one?” said the kid. He started compiling a ridiculous stack of foodstuffs. Joe’s stomach growled again.

“Well, just to keep you company.”

The kid made Joe his own ridiculous stack. “Why’d your band kick you out?”

Joe scratched his chin. “It was time for me to stop being in a cover band. I wanted us to play my songs and that just rubbed ‘em the wrong way, I guess, like it was my band and not a group of equals.” He picked up the sandwich. “Which I suppose it would of been then. So, shrewd on their part. Time to send me on down the road.” He took a bite. Kid made a good sandwich.

“I liked that song you did that sounded old,” said the kid. “Something about a guy and a gong.”

Joe stopped chewing and swallowed. “‘Hong Kong Blues’?” Kid liked Hoagy Carmichael?

“Maybe.” They ate some more.

“That was one cover I did not mind doing. Course, the other guys weren’t too keen on it. Didn’t fit with the rest of the set.”

“I liked when you did that long guitar solo too. Sounded dangerous.”

Joe chuckled. “Yeah, they didn’t like my long guitar solos either. See, my ego might not have been a good fit for that band.”

“Good thing they kicked you out then.” The kid smiled, absolutely innocent.

Joe smiled. “Maybe so.” He returned to his sandwich.

“Maybe you could teach me that song. The old one. Give me lessons.”

“I don’t know, kid . . .”

“I got a guitar.” The kid ran out of the room. He returned with a battered hand-me-down six-string acoustic. It wasn’t a Collings or a Schaefer, and it was a little bit big for him, but it was plenty fine otherwise for a boy his age to start with. The kid held it comfortably but with just a little bit of awe. “Somebody left this at the Choke. I suppose they might come back for it some day, but it’s been a while.” He put his fingers on the neck. At least he knew enough to keep them off the frets. He strummed a chord of his own making.

“Here,” Joe pointed to two spots on the neck. “Press down on these two strings, here and here.” The kid obliged and strummed. It sounded just a little bit sour. Guitar hadn’t been tuned in a while.

“Sounds kind of sad,” said the kid.

“Yep. That’s a minor chord,” said Joe. He smiled.

The kid played the chord again.

Joe nodded. “Y’know, I owe you anyway for this sandwich. We could maybe work something out for a few lessons. Anything to keep the Hoagy flame alive––and me fed.”

There was a whimpering and scratching at the door. The kid went to open it. He took a deep breath and let the dog back in. The dog put its paws up on the kid’s shoulders. Its tongue came out but the boy dodged it.

“Down girl.”

“Not gonna let her kiss ya’, huh?”

“I’m allergic. Mom says I have to get rid of her, but I haven’t figured out how yet. I don’t want to take her to a pound or anything.”

Joe scratched his chin again. “Come here, girl.” The dog transferred its affections to Joe who transferred some of his to her.

“Tell you what, I’ll check with my housemate about keeping a dog. If she’s okay with it, we’ll consider this pup payment for more lessons.”

The kid beamed. He took the guitar up again and played his prized new E minor chord.

“Maybe we’ll start today. I’ll teach you a couple more chords. Next time, I’ll bring you a book I had when I was your age and you can practice from it. We can find you some videos to watch too.”

A few days later, Joe called her cell phone one more time.

“Laurie, listen darlin’, I love you. I know I’ve been a sorry sad sack, moping all over the house day and night. I promise to let up on that. Now, I figure maybe you don’t love me anymore. But if we are broke up, I need to know. If our love’s gone, I want to hear it from you.”

He played her the new song he wrote.

She called back in three minutes.

“About time.”

###

Feature 3

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