Nothing to It

Behind Closed Doors 11 by Saqib Mughal. Image courtesy of ArtChowk Gallery.

A thick fog choked Castle Rock Park—cold, suffocating, still. It was quiet, too quiet for Weatherby. His brain compensated for the lack of sound by providing a maddening, grinding hum, like the bowing of the lower registers of a cello. Weatherby slapped both ears but the hum remained.

Ernie began to growl and Weatherby heard the approaching footsteps. A shadowy figure materialized from the gloom, the parkie, Dick Swiveller. Swiveller approached the Spruce tree. Weatherby was seated in a rusted-out lawn chair near his tree, just in front of the doorway that led to his living quarters inside the boughs.

“Hey, Dick,” he said as Ernie began to bark.

“Hey yourself,” said Swiveller. “Don’t let that dog take my leg off.”

“Cut it out, Ernie,” scolded Weatherby.

The tiny dog barked again at the approaching Swiveller, glanced at Weatherby, and trotted over to a wicker basket next to Weatherby’s chair. Once in the basket, the dog completely covered itself with a tiny knitted blanket. Weatherby had knitted the blanket for Ernie. The project had taken him a couple of weeks, it being his first stab at knitting. The stitches were haphazard and uneven but it was wool and kept Ernie warm. Weatherby reached down and gently poked the little form under the blanket. The dog growled. Weatherby grinned mischievously at Swiveller. Ernie crawled from under the blanket and out of the basket. He reared on his hind legs, stretched out his forepaws to Weatherby’s knee, and let out another bark. Weatherby scooped up the dog and placed him on his lap. Ernie continued to eye Swiveller, blinking and licking a forepaw. Weatherby had found Ernie abandoned one day in the park. Nobody came looking for the dog so Weatherby took him in.

“Looks like Ernie’s taking life easy,” said Swiveller

“Ernie’s a bum,” said Weatherby. The dog’s eyes were half shut as Weatherby stroked the tiny head.

“Grab a chair, Dick. There’s one just inside the doorway, there.”

Swiveller wedged himself into a hole in the spruce boughs and pulled a chair from the darkness inside. He unfolded the rickety chair and sat down across from Weatherby and Ernie.

“So what’s for breakfast?” said Swiveller.

“Nothing hot, I can tell you that,” said Weatherby. “Some assholes crapped on my grill last night. Unbelievable. Two goddamn monster turds right on my grill. They’re frozen now, stuck on like barnacles. I don’t know if I’ll ever get them off. But the worst of it is the idiots didn’t even wipe their asses after they shit. There’s no used paper around. How can a guy take a shit without wiping his ass? That’s not right.”

“When you gotta go, you gotta go,” ventured Swiveller, laughing.

“Yeah, it’s funny for you,” said Weatherby with some annoyance. “You don’t have to cook on that grill. Besides, every civilized human being knows to be prepared with paper when nature calls. It’s common sense.” Weatherby pulled up the stopper on his Adidas sports bottle and took a long pull of wine.

“You know,” commented Swiveller, “When I see you drink out of that bottle, I’m almost fooled into thinking you’re one of those dopey personal fitness trainers, or maybe a real estate broker, out for a morning jog and stopping for a hit of Gatorade. The only thing that gives you away is that shaggy beard.”

“That’s pretty funny, Dick. I can’t believe you would associate me with scum like that.” Weatherby said. “But seriously, idiots who drink from wine bottles in paper sacks are so goddamned obvious, they deserve to get popped. You have to be smart. You have to keep yourself under the radar.”

Weatherby knew how to exist without leaving too many footprints. He bought cheap Franzia wine in the box, removed the plastic wine-filled pouch and hid it in his pack. He drank the wine from plastic containers he found in trash bins—worn sports flasks with scuffed logos and energy drink bottles with flavors like Fruit Punch and Cherry Pomegranate Splash. Anything red. Whenever he drained the bottle, it was a simple matter to fill it again from the hidden pouch. He used the empty cardboard box to kindle his fires.

“That’s why you’ve managed to live in this park for, let’s see, seven years now,” said Swiveller, grimacing as he slowly rotated his shoulders. “And without any trouble to speak of.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Weatherby. “Stiff neck?”

“Just ordinary aches and pains. Seems like after 50 if it’s not one thing it’s another.”

“Goes with the territory,” said Weatherby sagely.

“Yeah. I feel like my old grand dad. He used to grunt and groan when he moved around. I remember when I was a kid I’d imitate him and make a joke out of it. Some joke. I’d really like to have that one back.”

“Kids are fucking evil bastards,” said Weatherby, pulling at his beard. The dog stood up on Weatherby’s lap and began to pant. Weatherby set Ernie on the ground. The dog wandered around sniffing.

“A few weeks ago, I was reading about Martin Luther, you know, the Reformation dude, and I remember reading that he was taking a shit when he got his big famous illumination. Anyway, it was Luther’s disgust with his own shit that led to his vision of the world as an evil place dominated by the devil. The world is shit. It stinks, it’s black, and it’s foul. Go over and take a big whiff of those two big sons of bitches lying on that grill; see for yourself.”

“I know what shit smells like, Weatherby. I deal with it every day. But what in hell does that have to do with anything?”

“It has to do with those little bastards who crapped on my grill,” said Weatherby. “They’re really demons disguised as little bastards.”

Swiveller sat for a moment and watched Weatherby puffing out smoke rings.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Swiveller. “That is, if it was kids who did it. Where do you come up with all these crazy ideas, anyway?”

“From the library, man,” said Weatherby. “I find out about all kinds of stuff there. That’s where I got the skinny on the CIA’s involvement in the Kennedy assassination. And a lot of other stuff too. Sometimes I take Ernie in there to get warm.”

“I thought you couldn’t have dogs in the library,” said Swiveller.

“Ernie is so small; I keep him in my coat. Nobody has ever noticed.”

“So do you think all that is true about Luther?” said Swiveller.

“It’s what the book said. But even if it isn’t true,” said Weatherby with a grin, “it ought to be.”

“Spoken like a true theologian.”

“How are things with the Parks Department?” Weatherby asked. “I see they kept you, even though you had to go to the cracker factory.”

“The job’s okay,” responded Swiveller. “I’m on thin ice but that’s not unusual. I spent quite a bit of time yesterday at Arcadia cleaning up Fern and Roy’s crap along Spring Creek.”

Weatherby laughed. “Those two are the main attraction over there. More entertaining than the zoo and it doesn’t cost you a nickel.”

“They’re fucking unbelievable,” said Swiveller. “Garbage scattered everywhere—beer cans, shit-stained panties, cigarette butts, used bloody Kotex pads, old filthy clothes, adult diapers rolled up and loaded with gravy—you name it. I tell them all the time, this isn’t your fucking house. You two don’t live here. Not that it does any good. Yesterday Swanson and I filled nearly a dozen large trash bags with all kinds of crap—pots, pans, clothes, shoes, food, all rotten, filthy, crawling with vermin.”

“I don’t know how anybody can live in such filth,” said Weatherby with disgust.

“Me neither. If it weren’t for the constant mess, I wouldn’t have an issue with those two. I used to tell them that. Be cool and keep your shit picked up, I’d say, and you won’t have any grief from me. Not to mention the cops. But I gave up on the lectures long ago. Fern and Roy live the only way they know. Like us all, I guess. The problem is Arcadia is a goddamn public park and I work for the parks department. I don’t bother with niceties anymore. I just show up and start shoveling. Whether they’re there or not.”

“I imagine that crazy Fern has something to say about that.”

Swiveller laughed. “Oh yes. She says she’s going to kill me and burn my house down.”

“When is this going to happen?”

“Never. She’s been saying that for years,” Swiveller said with a sigh. “It’s an ongoing battle. One that will outlast us all, I’m afraid.”

“You’re a bastard, Swiveller,” said Weatherby, his grin revealing a set of blackened teeth. “You’re always fucking up somebody’s pad.”

“I know it,” Swiveller said, eyes glazed, as if in a trance. He had his pocket knife out and was whittling away at a thumbnail. “But the sun shines on the wicked too. Maybe it’s the mood elevators and the tranquilizers but today I woke up from a weird dream I’ll be damned if I can remember and I actually felt good, like today was going to be a good day. I suppose I really am going crazy.”

“A good day?” said Weatherby, “With all this cold and fog? What kind of nonsense is that?”

“I don’t know. I like the cold. By the way, thanks for coming to visit me at the hospital. I’m sorry they wouldn’t let you in.”

“They probably have a policy of no winos allowed,” said Weatherby, filling his Adidas bottle.

“Actually, it’s considered a privilege to have visitors other than family. I didn’t get any privileges. They’ve got a level system gig in there. If you cooperate, you move up the levels. I wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. The groups were boring and stupid and the nurses were bitches. So I stayed the entire week in the closed unit on Level 0. No visitors. No privileges.”

“Jesus, what did you do the whole time?”

“I sat out in the lounge in front of the nurses’ desk and read Les Misérables, the whole 1200 pages, man. Even the boring chapters that have nothing to do with the story. Reading about Jean Valjean freed me in a way. A couple of the orderlies were friendly and we bullshitted a little now and then. Once this crazy bastard in the room next to mine tried to club an orderly with this piece of metal he’d somehow torn off the door. The orderly kicked his ass. That was the high point of the week. Finally, the psychologist told me I was, as he put it, ‘sabotaging my own treatment’ and discharged me.”

Swiveller stood up. “Well, I guess I better get started on that grill. I might have to chisel that crap off.”

“I’ll go over with you—hey, where’s Ernie?” said Weatherby, looking around. “Do you see him, Dick?”

“Maybe he’s under that blanket in the basket,” said Swiveller.

Weatherby poked at the blanket. No response. He pulled off the little blanket, revealing the dog. Ernie opened his eyes, stood shakily, and barked.

“Ah, possuming, I thought so,” said Weatherby. Ernie wagged his tail and barked again. “Come on, Dick, you’ll get a kick out of this.”

Swiveller and Weatherby headed off through the fog. Weatherby had his Adidas bottle in hand, and sipped from it from time to time. Ernie skittered alongside. Bare apple trees suddenly appeared from out of the mist, the skeletal branches reaching up into the fog. Castle Rock Park was built on the grounds of the old prison apple orchard. The grim sandstone walls of the abandoned prison still stood at the northernmost edge of the park. Just past the trees they arrived at the concrete pad upon which Weatherby’s grill and some small tables were anchored.

“Now isn’t that some repulsive motherfucking shit?” said Weatherby, indignant. “And look around you—no paper! You can bet your boots that Luther used paper.”

“Far out, man,” said Swiveller. “It’s like modern art.”

Two long gnarled turds lay frozen side by side on the grill, looking like some sort of ancient rune.

Swiveller looked around. “Fortunately that’s all they did. Nothing’s broken. There’s no graffiti. It’s probably a good thing Ernie didn’t hear whoever it was and start barking. They’d have found your place. Hell, they might even have come over and squatted over you. Or set you on fire. That’s been known to happen, you know.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” said Weatherby. “I guess I was pretty lucky. You think those damn things are going to come off?”

“Sure,” said Swiveller. “It just might take a while. I’ll need to get a few things from the truck.”

Swiveller disappeared into the fog and reemerged a few minutes later with a square-point shovel and a wire brush. Weatherby had his Adidas bottle in his dirty paw and was singing in a cracked, wheezing voice:

“If I weave around at night

Policemen think I’m very tight

They never find my bottle though they ask.

“’Cause Plastic Jesus shelters me

For his head comes off you see.

He’s hollow and I use him like a flask.”

“What? Are you singing hymns now?” asked Swiveller, setting to work on the grill. Ernie squatted under the table, gnawing away at a dog biscuit made to resemble a T-bone steak. He looked up from the steak occasionally and growled as if somebody was going to take it away from him.

Weatherby took a long drag of wine. “Hymns? What are you talking about? That’s Billy Idol.”

“Billy Idol?” said Swiveller. “I didn’t know you liked Billy Idol. You’re always telling me you hate rock music.”

“I know,” said Weatherby. “But a guy I know made me a CD with all kinds of stuff on it. I like that song.”

“Well, the turds are coming right off. They must have frozen just as they hit the metal. A couple of minutes with a wire brush and it’ll be like it never happened.”

“I’ll be goddamned,” said Weatherby, watching Swiveller shovel the shit into a black plastic bag and brush the grill. “You’re an amazement to me, Dick.”

“Nothing to it,” said Swiveller.

“I don’t suppose a skill like that pays too well, though,” said Weatherby.

“No.”

“Probably doesn’t get you much action with the women either.”

“No,” said Swiveller, picking up his tools and the plastic bag. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

It wasn’t long after Swiveller left that the sun came out and burned away the fog. Birds chirped in the bare branches of the trees. A brown squirrel rooted about on the frozen ground. Weatherby got a fire going in the grill and cooked up a rasher of bacon. He then used the grease to fry up some sliced potatoes. He got his old percolator out and made some strong coffee. With Ernie asleep in his lap, he ate and sipped his coffee. It all seemed so easy.

Jerry Wilson lives in Boise, Idaho, where he worked as a Park Ranger for many years — a job which inspired his first collection of short stories, ‘A Kind of Kaddish’, published in England by Leaky Boot Press. His stories tell of the lives and deaths of a homeless gang that lives in the park, centered around the striking figures of Weatherby, the wise tramp, and Swiveller, the Park Ranger who has befriended him.

(‘Nothing to It’ was originally published by Leaky Book Press in Jerry Wilson’s short story collection, ‘A Kind of Kaddish’.)