SWEAT: Global Warming in a Small Town & other tales of The Great American Westerly Midwest Page 3

  Well, Michael is an interesting case.

  His mother is Irish. His father Japanese. They met at Berkeley.

  Michael went with them to one of Willie Nelson’s Farm Aid concerts and had an epiphany of some sorts is how I understand it. They moved to Iowa and saw all the empty main street stores.

  Michael decided to bring back Midwestern agriculture his own self. He and the wife have sixteen children and she’s expecting again. They farm one hundred sixty acres with a little, what I would call a normal tractor.

  They have livestock. He wears coveralls. He’s also studying crop dusting at CCC this term. She has chickens, collects the eggs, for egg money.

  They milk and use it themselves.

  The children walk together to town to school, eschewing any roads, cross country, a la “Little House on the Prairie,” I suppose. Many times all they do all day is walk back and forth.

  What they are doing is hoping they can bring back the 1940s and 1950s, is what I think, with busy downtown streets on Thursday nights.

  I certainly wish them well.

  We might get some notice from the bigger papers in the area. It’s kind of a novelty, the sweat pants promotion.

  Who knows, maybe the Today Show will come right down here to the four-way some morning to talk about the brave little town that would not be fooled, that could, that stood tall.

  The cold, hard facts. That’s all we want.

  All we need.

  I kind of wonder how the different folks will come down on all this.

  Geez, now there is getting to be more traffic this morning than I ever remember encountering, with the possible exception of the July 5th Parade that one year.

  July 4th would not work because of not being able to find the key to the lock on the historical society storage garage where they kept the old stuff they wanted to put in the parade, so it all had to wait a day. Made for a large turnout, all the commotion and stress and such.

  There goes Betsy Pomp. Betsy Rose Pomp, our six-feet-nine inch elementary principal. I dare say six-feet-six would have been sufficient. She did play basketball here and at State. She can dunk it. I’ve seen her with her girls in their driveway.

  There’s the Schmidts, Rubie Bell and Paulie. They are bikers, ride ten-speeds wherever they go, have parrot tattoos up and down their arms, all that, wear their hair in ponytails, with black kerchiefs around their heads.

  He’s got thick blond hair and hers is as black as the nine of clubs. They go to the Unitarian Universalist Church on Water Street, have a couple of adopted children, don’t believe in God, and voted Libertarian in the last election.

  I’m not certain how I know that. Maybe it was that waitress.

  “Ding-ding.”

  You hear that?

  It’s the bell.

  The ice-cream truck. It used to be the ice cream truck. In the 50s and 60s.

  Now William Rodgers drives it to work every morning, right past here.

  It used to be William’s grandfather’s little truck. He drove it around to all the neighborhoods, every one, without exception, in the summer, selling or giving away ice cream to the kids.

  When ol’ man Rodgers died of an appendicitis attack, while he was on the route — the route and the truck sort of died too.

  Well, when William grew older of course he remembered his grandfather, and sometimes those Down’s Syndrome people have a little more on the ball as far as emotions, feelings. They’ve also got displaced big toes, if you’ve ever had occasion to be in attendance at adult night at the pool when a gaggle of them arrives.

  In any case, William has his own business, Toon Town. His father and mother helped him get it all up, do the books. He buys and sells used music, CDs, some instruments, also some movies, video games.

  He’s also on the city council, has been since he turned twenty-one, three, maybe four years ago.

  Well, William, Will, is no dummy. He knows who he is, probably to a greater degree than most, perhaps attributable to his parents. He understands he is disabled, what caused it, what it means, what his future likely holds.

  He also knows, being on the city council, that the whole fire department thing just hasn’t been working out for the city.

  So he decided he’d turn that old ice cream truck into an emergency response vehicle, get it back into service.

  He formed the Jennifer Junction Volunteer Appendectomy Squad.

  He’s got his team and his beepers all in place. Everyone is trained to do on the spot major surgery. They carry little pen flashlights, sharp pocket knives, needle nose pliers, what have you, No. 9 wire, alcohol wipes.

  Well, I’m tallying pairs of sweat pants, and in this morning commute crowd, I’d count three in the affirmative and ten and more with the anti’s.

  Of course, you can’t see below the waist on those who are driving, so this could be a so-not reliable survey.

  I have heard talk that a citywide, statewide, national, international search is already underway to try to find sweat pants sufficient in size and number to fit around the simply enormous posteriors of the, well, many of the citizens of the hamlet of Jennifer Junction.

  The big sweats.

  Oh, well, mine here are large.

  They come in XL as well, double, triple and beyond, I suppose to infinity.

  I have heard you must journey to a major metropolitan area or go online to procure four, five and six XL.

  That paper says that Rick’s Sporting Goods has a full supply of smalls, medium, large and one-X.

  There are four double-X and the last XXXL was sold at five minutes to five yesterday afternoon.

  The Rossbacher family has an ad running on eBay hoping to procure six pairs of XXXXXXL with elastic waist bands.

  The city has put together a team of full-time volunteers searching Craigs List, 24-7.

  The editorial page of Bob’s News has opined that Jennifer Junction ambassadors be sent wherever necessary: India, China, Bolivia, Bozeman, in order to find the right sizes.

  “It’s that important. If we can’t act on something like this, when will we ever?” they said.

  The article went on to say we should “peruse the planet, browse every byway, tilt at every windmill, jousting, battling the global warming dragon — become men and women of La Mancha, seekers of sweats, doers of amazing deeds.

  “Go for it.”

  I’m sweatin’.

  It’s hot.

  I’m pounding as fast as I can, trying to keep up with Jesse and Carl in the pumper truck Honda.

  I put my head down and stand up and watch my legs to see how hard I’m going and throw the butterfly handlebars side to side.

  I can hardly breath.

  It’s humid and hot. It’s that darned humidity and it’s that darned heat.

  I don’t know where they’re going. I was sitting downtown talking to that one guy who sits there.

  Jesse comes flyin’ around the corner right through a red light.

  Robert S. Thompson said it was pink.

  Anyway, I took off.

  It’s mostly downhill or flat around here. That helps.

  Whenever Jesse looks in his rearview mirror I look the other way. His side mirror is busted out.

  They must be in a hurry from how fast they are going.

  Or it’s just because I’m on a bike. I can’t wait until I can get my license. I told Mom that Dad said he’d get me a car. She said we’ll see. She always says that.

  We flash past the cop shop and I see ol’ LaVerna looking outside through the bars of her window.

  There’s a drive where the cop cars pull in and out that goes right by LaVerna’s cell, like she’s back at her old job.

  Just as I suspected.

  Jesse pulled into the Foos Foods parking lot. I yanked over behind a rusted mini-van where I could see through the van windows and still be on the other side of the van where ol’ Sherlock and Watson couldn’t see me.

  I wondered if they were going to citizen’s
arrest The Ol’ Foos.

  Maybe it would be official since Jesse’s the fire department and Carl’s the college.

  I watched Carl and Jesse until the Mexicans came out and drove away their mini-van.

  Then I just put down my kickstand and sat with my arms crossed, watching the scene.

  Jesse saw me and then said something to Carl.

  They both turned around, then waved me to come up and talk.

  “Hey,” said Jesse, ‘cause I was at his window.

  “Hey,” I said. “Stakeout?”

  Jesse nodded.

  Carl kept his eyes on the store.

  “We got a report that the Sox couple were on their way to the store,” Jesse said.

  I nodded then looked at the store.

  You can see practically the whole thing and everyone inside through that giant window.

  The Sox’ yellow school bus was parked there all right, taking up the whole east side parking area.

  “We just don’t know what might be going down,” said Jesse.

  I saw Bobbi and Jim at one of the checkouts.

  “You want me to go ask them?” I said.

  Carl looked at Jesse.

  “That might work,” Carl said.

  “Okay,” I said. I pushed off to coast down to the front doors.

  “Be careful, kid,” I heard Jesse whisper like he meant it.

  The Sox’ were still paying when I got in there. I could see Carl and Jesse out the window.

  I waved.

  Jesse waved back. Carl put a hand to his brow and looked down at the pavement.

  When I came out I got my bike and walked it over to the brown Honda fire engine.

  “They kidnapped their own kid, right kid?” said Carl.

  “It was The Foos,” said Jesse, still in whisper mode.

  “LaVerna’s chirping, huh?” Carl added.

  “Spillin’ her guts,” said Jesse, now in a normal voice.

  “They needed Huggies,” I said.

  “For when they get li’l Sweat back.

  “That it?” said Carl. “Nothing else?”

  “Huggies … diet Pepsi,” I looked at the clouds to think. “Chips. Nacho chips, big bag.”

  The Sox bus diesel engine cranked. They pulled slowly toward the exit, showing us plainly the “Go Cows” logo on the side, homemade, but not too bad.

  I looked down at Carl. He was still watching the store.

  Inside the big front window The Two Foos, Mary Woo and Larry, makes two, smiled and waved.

  Carl and Jesse stared.

  I stood on my peddles, not moving, trying to balance. I finally had to drop down.

  I looked out toward the highway and the ball field, looking for someone I knew.

  I could see Ron On The Radio through the big front window of the station.

  He was sitting at his big desk with the big microphone, with the big American flag on the wall behind him and a clear jar of assorted candy in front of him.

  Tacked over the flag was the biggest pair of grey sweat pants in the world.

  I try to hold onto the building and stand on my bike. My front tire is almost flat.

  I’ll need to get air at Cenex. It’s free. Some places it costs.

  It smells like feed in the air. We’re not that far from the elevator. It still smells even though it’s closed for the casino.

  It smells like caramel corn, too. I look around to see where that’s coming from.

  I can hear someone walking in high heels.

  It’s the lady from the office supply store. She gets dressed up to work there.

  Ron On The Radio can see me now.

  They have a microphone outside that I don’t know where it is, but I can hear it.

  He’s talking about sweat pants and America and baseball and the war and last week’s United Methodist early service and next week’s Apple Pie Day.

  People are supposed to put hot pies in their windows and if somebody walks all around instead of driving you’re supposed to be able to smell ‘em.

  You can listen to him if you want if you’re downtown.

  “Family values, that’s what we’re talking about, people.

  “Tradition. A good day’s honest wage for a day’s work. Hot, honest labor. Sweat. Sweat pants.

  “Our Founding Fathers and Mothers wore them, though you don’t hear that from the liberal media. They did not worry about warming.

  “As American as American can be.

  “And if you think for one moment …”

  Here comes a bunch of those seniors.

  They are really starting to run wild, that’s what some people say. Pretty soon you won’t be able to go downtown without being harassed by them.

  Harassed means like pushing or something.

  They walk right by me like I’m not here. They wear shorts and sandals. The old guys aren’t wearing shirts.

  Wal-Mart’s got a new greeter on the north entrance door.

  I already know him, Walter White Man.

  He’s rich.

  Maybe he’s lucky, I don’t know.

  He has the Enchanted Companies.

  It’s Enchanted Golf Course, Enchanted Bowling For Less, and the Enchanted Feed Lot.

  They weren’t called that when his dad had the company.

  Walt says he’s been on an alien space ship, mother ship. He came to talk to my class one time. I’m not sure if Miss Porter still lives in town or not.

  Yesterday Carl and Jesse were in there all day, on one of those hard-plastic benches, surveiling him while he greeted.

  They think he might know something about li’l Sweat, maybe part of the bunch, the gang.

  Carl and Jesse must have all the inside dope.

  Or, they could just be lonely, like Walter maybe.

  Sittin’ at Wal-Mart is at least better than sittin’ at home.

  Pssst!

  Djew hear that?

  Gutner, in Bogota Booth, he says it was Steve the pizza kid, guy, who took Little Baby Sox.

  “He yis owt all de night long, driving aroundt, looking in all de winnows, seeingk who is up and who is fuckingk or sleepingk.

  “He looks in all de winnows. He has no wooman, no chilt. He sees one he likes, he takz-it.

  “Zooom! Off he goz-again.

  “See?”

  Gutner works for the city so he has coffee all over town and talks to a lot of people. So he would know.

  I think he’s awesome. His starched brown work shirts are always so fresh and pressed every day, and they look nice with his grey sweat pants and shiny black work boots.

  This gum is old. I’ve got some more in my purse wansome?

  If you don’t like blueberry there’s vanilla.

  Yes, I have been made aware.

  Steve the pizza kid, guy, dude, wont’ wear the sweat pants.

  He’s in the definite minority by now, I dare say.

  He has told the local newspapers on record that he does not believe in all this anti-global warming crap, and I quote.

  Which must mean he is in favor of global warming, which is thoroughly disagreeable and will not sell him many pizzas.

  And something I would think his employer would want to look into.

  And cut his dick off.

  And poor li’l Sweat Sox, poor, dear, sweet Sweat, what has become of you?

  He’s a traitor. That Steve.

  A dickless coward.

  That’s what ol’ Gutner said about Pizza Steve this morning.

  One time a woman did that with her husband, cut off his dick. Then tossed it in the front yard on her way to work. That got in the news.

  I’m not sure if a pizza delivery guy has ever had that done to them. That would have been on the news.

  Gutner was eating sausage and talking about it.

  I don’t know why he’s so serious about the sweat pants. He’s really into the whole thing. He wears sweats all day.

  Sometimes he wears two or three pairs at a time.

  A
nd when he sees Steve on the road he stares. Sometimes he sticks his head out the pickup window and stares and yells.

  And makes that one sign.

  There’s a certain hand signal that some of the pro-sweats are using.

  Take your two fists out in front of you, put them together and then pull them apart, like you’re pulling the draw string on your sweat pants tight.

  It also kind of resembles a garrote being pulled around somebody’s neck if you ever saw The Godfather.

  It’s drizzly today.

  I imagine myself seated on a bench in downtown London, maybe Duluth.

  If I close my eyes it is conceivable.

  Jesse in the fire truck — it is actually an ancient brown Honda — is revving up his engine — he likes to think of it as a fire truck and that’s fine.

  He is trying to get up enough momentum to beat Gutner in the city truck right beside.

  There are not really two lanes.

  But since there are no cars parked right now, that allows for Gutner to pull up next to Jesse and agitate.

  Those two.

  Gutner, I believe, with that thick accent, is European, perhaps Eurasian. Someone said he came here from South Dakota. I rather doubt that account.

  To me, he over-compensates by being, or appearing to be, uber-patriotic.

  I don’t think that applies to his battles with Jesse. I think that’s just for his own entertainment, but as regards Steve The Supreme Pizza Dude there is more to it than that.

  He just wants to fit in, Gut’. We all do. Not me, so much, but others, I believe.

  And so he goes on and on about not believing in global warming and wearing sweat pants because as an outsider he sees others doing thus and thus and calling it patriotism.

  Gutner, that is unusual spelling.

  Maybe Swiss.

  I know of a man who was “Jhonny” his whole life because his parents could not spell.

  The crimes of our parents forever haunt us.

  Hey.

  And there they go.

  I wear the sweat pants and listen to Sweaty Waters In The Morning, but I do note that Gutner’s belief might be a little misplaced and insincere, not entirely necessary, perhaps.

  Jesse had him halfway through the intersection.

  But Gutner and that six-banger were just too much.

  So Jesse lets off to live another day and turns up the radio in face-saving defiance.

  The old people across the street on the corner watched in silence, tossing cigarette butts at the gutter, blowing smoke rings at the police car that just pulled up.