Factory Town Read online

  Again I woke up at 7 and repeated the previous days early morning ritual. I bought a Sunday Des Moines Register. I found a park bench and sat down to read. Then I heard somebody yelling at me. “Hey dumb shit! Where have you been?" It was Eddie and some other guys that I knew. They claimed that they had looked for me for 2 days. They went to my place and all the downtown bars. We must have just missed each other. I told them my story. Now I am telling you. I am only doing that because John the Cleaner asked me to.

  Iowa City Thanksgiving 1969 and the Zombie Menace

  I walked over to the apartment house on Dubuque Street. Erica had invited me to spend Thanksgiving with her and her artsy friends. Most of the students at the University had gone home for the holiday. It was 1969. The war in Vietnam was not going well. It seemed like there was a protest every week. Hippies were everywhere. There had been race riots in the cities. The Weather Underground was blowing up buildings. Weed was in short supply. It was cold outside. This college town was too quiet. It felt like the zombies were getting ready to attack again. And I was hungry for food and human company.

  So I walked up to the second floor. The wooden steps were in need of a fresh coat of paint and they squeaked. I knocked on the door of 2A at the top of the landing. One of the Chicago boys opened the door. I think it was Jess. I handed him a jug of Vino Fino that I brought as my donation for the feast. The Doors were on the stereo. "People are Strange" or maybe "Riders on the Storm".

  I could smell the turkey roasting. There was a strange pungency to the smell. This Earth Mother babe told me that the stuffing had pot in it. She had been inspired by Alice B. Toklas.

  There were lots of people there. Mostly from the film school, art department or the writer's workshop. I had just dropped out of school and was waiting around to see what was going to happen next.

  Apartment 2A was decorated with second hand furniture. Lamps with fringe on the shades. Everything seemed red, gold or green. The place was warm. People were having important conversations. Profound, uplifting and relevant. I was hearing words like Sartre and art. Arlo Guthrie on the stereo. "You can get anything you want....." I was in a big old cloth upholstered arm chair. I was on my second glass of wine and I was sinking into the chair. Becoming one with it. But somewhere inside I was thinking about those zombies outside. Just wandering the streets and looking for nothing in particular.

  Just then somebody knocked on the door. I could hear somebody asking if I was there. I stood up and turned toward the door. It was Rat. I hadn't seen this guy for a long time. Last I heard he had volunteered for the Marines. See, he had stuck up this gas station in Omaha. He got caught 10 minutes later. The judge said join the Marines or go to jail.

  So Rat was at this party. He said he had seen the note that I had left on my door.

  "Bill ...it's you. Why did you leave me?" Some short hippie chick with long black hair and twenty pounds of beads yelled this at Rat. And she was pissed. Really pissed. Rat says that he is not Bill and has no idea who she is. Never seen her before. So they yell at each other for a while. Great entertainment! Erica takes the chick into the kitchen and I talk to Rat.

  Turns out Rat went AWOL from the Marines and went to Chicago and ended up living with this chick. He told her that his name was Bill. She was in love. One day he just disappears. He went to the Marines and turned himself in. He pretended to be nuts. They held him for six months. Got out on a medical discharge. When the chick came back from the kitchen, she and Rat/Bill talked for the rest of the night.

  Another knock on the door. I open the door. It was a long blonde hair surfer kind of guy at the door. He said he was hitchhiking across the country and his ride had let him off down the street. He had seen the light in the window and came upstairs. He did not look like a zombie or a narc so I let him in. Somebody gave him a glass of wine. He said he was out of money but had a lid of Acapulco Gold that he would sell. 25 bucks. He pulled it out and rolled a joint. Passed it around. A collection was taken up and he got his 25 bucks.

  Then we started eating. Turkey and stoned stuffing. Pumpkin pie and all the regular stuff. Vino Fino. Prairie Queen white port bottled in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Acapulco Gold after dinner cigars. Janis Joplin on the stereo. " Take another little piece of my heart now baby.."

  Sometime later I stumbled home. Just another zombie walking the cold lonely streets.

  Eddie T. and His Foot

  I gotta tell you this story. It's about a guy from the old neighborhood. It was during one of those post colonial economic sphere of dominion wars. Or maybe it was one of those anti-domino wars. Anyway it was a long time ago. Some people liked the war. Some people didn't. Most people didn't think about it much.

  Back then, if you were not in school, if you were not disabled, or if you were not from a rich family, the Army would send you a letter. It was a letter saying that you had been chosen to serve the homeland. You were ordered to have a physical examination at a military post. If you passed the exam you would get free room and board for the next few years.

  Well this kid from down the street gets one of those letters. I am going to call him Eddie T. That is not his real name. I don't want him or anybody else complaining that I did not tell this story right. I also don't want to give any interviews to any investigators. All the other names in this story are fake names. They are not even close so don't try to guess who the people are. But I can tell you that this story is almost all true.

  So Eddie T. gets this letter. He hates the war. He is telling everybody that he is not gonna go. No way. Hell is gonna freeze over first. The Army can kiss his ass. He is just going to stay home and hang out with his friends.

  As the day approaches, that he is to report for his physical exam, Eddie T. is getting more agitated and nervous. He is acting crazy. Drinking too much. Driving too fast. Getting in fights. Everyday he is engaged in more and more anti-societal activities. A lot of non-normantive behavior. He is becoming a danger to himself and the neighborhood. The guys tell him to settle down. To chill out. He is getting a lot of advice. His priest tells him to pray. Some doctor offers to write a letter to the army saying that he is nuts and has some kind of rare disease. His uncle Cheese tells him to stop being a baby and just go to the Army. So, Eddie T. is freaking out.

  On the Saturday before he has to go, they have this party for him. It was out in the country. In an abandoned farmhouse. People and pigs use to live there. Now nobody does. Great place for a party. Lots of beer, some smoke and a few girls. A couple of beers into the party Eddie T. asks Rat for his gun. Rat is also a fake name but is an accurate description of this guy. Rat always carried a little 22 automatic. Eddie T. says that he just wants to do a little plinking. You know....shoot some empty beer cans. Rat hands him the 22. Eddie T. points the 22 at his right foot. Then he proceeds to shoot himself in his own damn foot. Eddie T. screams. The girls scream. The guys are yelling at Eddie T. Calling him all manner of fowl names. Eddie T. says he just flunked his Army physical. He is not going to have to go into the Army. A couple of the guys dump him off at the hospital. He tells the doc that it was an accident. They x-ray his foot. The doc tells Eddie T. that he is lucky. Eddie T. says that he knows that. No says the doc. The 22 bullet did not break any bones. His foot will be fine. Eddie T. pukes right there on the docs brown wingtip shoes.

  Eddie T. goes to the Army physical. They tell him not to worry about the foot. They will take him anyway.

  Eddie T. ends up at a base near the border. He never does have to go to the war. They let him out early because of some mental problem. He won't talk about it. He just smiles. Eddie T. comes home to the old neighborhood and works for his uncle Cheese.

  That was a long time ago.

  Someone Still Has To Do The Dishes

  Let me talk about this thing. Without interruption. Without comment. Without laughter. I walk out the door. North thru the small park. Past the swing set. Where ghost girl swings unseen to me. It is not yet Spring. The snow is melting. There is that familiar
smell. That smell of dirt waking up. I walk up the alley. Past the old garages with their marks of empire. Tagged by the Westside Locos. Tagged by Florencia 13. On this fifth year of the Iraq Crusade. On this Wednesday of Semana Santa. Tomorrow the Bishop washes the feet of the Faithful. Friday is the Passion Play in the old gym. Jesus will be tortured by the Romans. The sacrifice will be made. Judas will hang himself. The third day will come.

  I open the door. The door of the Super Mercado. Buy the nopales and dried shrimp. For Friday's cactus and tortas de camerones. I am thinking. Thinking about the empires and gangs. Local and global. And how someone still has to do the dishes.

  The Old Wooden Heart

  Today I was driving to work. Driving past the Carnegie Apartments. Listening to love songs on the car radio. Sha la la....I love you...I do...I do. And then I remembered. It was a day so long ago. I was maybe ten years old. Charlie and I rode our bikes to the library. It was the old brown brick library. Brick from the brickyard south of town. Red tile roof. It was a Carnegie Library. I learned later about Andrew Carnegie. Steel magnate. Robber baron. But he helped build libraries all over the country. So we would ride our bikes there. Mine was a red Schwinn. A one speed bike. A basket and light hooked to the handle bars. Charlie had a ten speed. Hand brakes. Green. A Huffy. We would go to the library. First we would go to the third floor museum. Look at the old dugout canoe. Look at the giant turtle shell.

  Then we would look for some books. Maybe "Old Yeller". Maybe a book about tools. Maybe a pirate book. We would leave through the big wooden doors. Then slide down the metal hand rail. Walk back up the wide concrete steps. Slide down again. We decided to look under the steps. We walked thru the sticker bushes. I am sure that they have a real name. But to us they were sticker bushes. We jumped down into the wide concrete drain. We crawled under the wire fence. We were under the steps. Dark and cool. Full of leaves. Some old empty booze bottles. A couple of old brown boots. Newspapers and trash. A great secret place. But so easy to get to. A guy could hide there for a long time. Maybe somebody did. Then I saw something in the dry leaves. I picked it up. A small wooden heart. Initials carved in it. I showed it to Charlie. We wondered if some bum had left it there. It was old. The metal loop on the top was rusted through. I put it in my pocket. We rode back up the hill. Back home. I put the heart in my secret treasure cigar box. Every once in a while I would look at it. Take it out and wonder who they were. The lovers whose initials were carved into it. What happened to them?

  Then I would put it back in the cigar box. Next to the Iron Cross. Great uncle Oscar took it from a dead German. Back during the Great War. Years later I felt strange keeping the heart. Keeping it locked up in that old cigar box. Somehow it needed to be free. Not lying next to the Iron Cross. So I took it out of the box. I drove down to the Missouri River. Parked near the river bank. Nice warm evening. Walked down to the river. Watched the water flowing south. Heard the crickets singing evening songs. Thought about the giant catfish still uncaught. I looked at the old wooden heart. Thought about the unknown to me lovers. Wished a wish of undying love. And tossed the heart into the swirling current.

  Eight Bucks

  Every year down by the Missouri River there was a carnival. And every year we went. We would take the special bus. And I got to ride the rides. The ferris wheel. The bumper cars. The merry-go-round. The tilt-a-whirl. Until I started feeling dizzy. Then I would ride some more. And every year we ate. The cotton candy. The hotdogs. The caramel corn. The root beer float. Until I started feeling sick. Then I would eat some more. And every year we played the games. The coin toss. The free throw game. The ring toss. The milk bottle game. Until I lost all my money. Then my mom would say "No more!" And we would take the special bus home. Just a great night of decadence for a little kid.

  One to be repeated year after year. Until one year. The carnival was down by the Missouri River. We took the special bus. I rode the ferris wheel. I rode the bumper cars. I rode the merry-go-round. I rode the tilt-a-whirl. I felt dizzy. Then I rode some more. I ate the cotton candy. I ate the hotdogs. I ate the caramel corn. I had a root beer float. I felt sick. Then I ate some more. I lost at the coin toss. I lost at the free throw game. I lost at the ring toss game. I lost at the milk bottle game. I lost all my money. Then the Carney said that he would give me a free game. And my mom said yes. And I threw that ball hard. And I knocked all the bottles down. And I asked for my prize. And the Carney said free games are just practice. No prizes. The Carney asked me how much I had lost at his booth. I said a buck. He said if I paid him another buck for three games and I just won one game he would give me five bucks. In those days my allowance was a quarter a week So I could win twenty weeks allowance just by knocking down three milk bottles. My mom fronted me the buck. I threw the ball hard. I knocked one bottle down. The next time I missed everything. The Carney said he thought I could do it on the last throw. I took careful aim. I threw hard. I missed. Well the Carney started to like me. And kept giving me free practice games. And I was getting in some solid throws. And he kept offering me special deals.

  And my mom kept fronting me money. And I kept missing. And then my mom said "No more!"

  We took the special bus home. We did not talk on the bus. My friend, the Carney had my eight bucks.

  One buck that was mine. And seven bucks my mom had fronted me. Eight bucks. Thirty two weeks allowance. I don't know if I ever paid it all back. But I think the Carney liked me. We did not go to the carnival the next year. I did not ride the rides. I did not eat the food. I did not play the games. We did not ride the special bus. We did not talk about it. But I think the Carney missed me.

  Three Days in the Brickyards

  One time I got mad at my boss at the retread shop. It was 1968 and some of the guys liked George Wallace. George was running for President of the United States. He had been the Governor of Alabama.

  They said that they liked him because he was gonna stop all that racial integration and all those protesting hippies. Somebody had to, they said. You guys are nuts, I said. Well my hair was getting a little long by then and I was feeling more and more uncomfortable hearing their crazy talk during breaks.

  So, I went out to the brickyards. They are in those hills south of town. On the other side of the railroad tracks. I did not have a car in those days. I got a ride with this guy I knew. They hired me on the spot. They called me a picker. My job was to pick up bricks one in each hand. Then stack them on a pallet. After an hour my arms were killing me. Bricks are not so heavy one at a time. But after a while the muscles just want to give out.

  Bricks are made of water and clay. They got the clay from the hills behind the plant. They are called loess hills. Loess hills are some kind of rare type of hill. Now clay is just dried up ocean. Full of dried up clams and fish. Full of dried up plants. Full of dried up time. Now they mix the clay with water. Then they pour it into a mold. Then it is fired in a kiln. Then it comes out. Then we would pick it. Then it would dry in the back somewhere. Then they would ship it somewhere for a building. Then the salesman would get a bonus. Then the owners would... Well I don't know exactly what they would do. I only worked there three days.

  My picker crew was the fastest crew there. They said that I slowed them down. They knew that I was new. There were three brothers that kept to themselves. Two guys on work release from the county jail. And one guy that lived in an old boxcar outback. The bosses knew he lived there. He had a still where he made his own booze. Well these guys could all work maybe twice as fast as me.

  On the night of the third day at the brickyards, my old boss at the retread shop calls me on the phone. He says that he wants me back. Offers me a twenty five cent an hour raise. Sounding good. I tell him no. But inside I am thinking that I could be making a buck fifty an hour. Holy Shit! I'd be rich! Then he says he was sorry about all the weird political talk about Wallace and such. Well I said that I was glad that he was sorry and that he had seen the error of his ways. He probably still voted for Wallace or may
be Nixon. The final part of the offer was this. I would be running the tire mold room from four in the afternoon till one in the morning. I would be alone from five o'clock on. I accepted the offer. See I could walk to the retread shop in fifteen minutes. The brickyards were always hot. The heat from the kiln. The summer sun. I lost five pounds in three days. The mold room at the retread shop was hot. A four hundred and fifty square foot room. There were seven passenger tire molds and four truck tire molds. Each of them hot enough to melt the rubber strips that were glued to the old tire casings that were in the molds that would imprint the new tread design. Each mold took five minutes to change. The truck molds maybe a little longer. Sometimes a tire would explode. And I would get behind.

  But at one I was done. And on Friday nights Billy the Fox would drive by and pick me up and hand me an ice cold beer. And once in a while I would think about how I sold myself for a twenty five cent an hour raise.

  Coyote in the Backyard

  One time when I was going along I picked up the newspaper. It was on the table in the coffee shop. I looked at the headlines. Something about a someone selling a war. I did not read the article. There was a foto of a happy cheerleader on the front page. Well, I was in a hurry. And I just scanned the pages. Looking for who lied. Looking for who died. Looking for who cried. Nobody that I knew. Right there on page 7. The bottom of page 7. The lower right hand corner of page 7. Section B, I believe it was. Was a small article of great importance. A Mrs. Jones had called animal control. She had heard a noise in her backyard. An annoying disturbance, it was. So she had looked out the kitchen window. And she saw a coyote running around the backyard. He was trying to get out. He was digging. Dirt was flying. The neighbor's dogs were howling. Her backyard was fully fenced. Fully fenced with chain link. The kind that keeps critters in and out. So she was surprised to see a wild beast in her backyard. So she called animal control. Mrs. Jones has a small house in the Russian bottoms. She lives near Saint Casimir's Catholic Church. She lives just off of Gordon Drive. She is retired. She is a widow. Mr. Jones use to work as a meat cutter for Swift. She raised a big family. And now she lived alone. And now a coyote had invaded her yard. And now she has called animal control. Well the article on page 7 goes on to tell us what happened. Bob Larson from animal control had taken the call. He was there in ten minutes. He had come in the small white pickup. He was ready. He had a gun. He had a rope. He had a bag full of stuff. He walked to Mrs. Jones's backyard. The coyote was gone. There was no hole under the fence. There was no way for the coyote to escape. Mrs. Jones was sure that she had seen him. The neighbor dogs were watching carefully. Bob Larson had to file his report. Report of coyote in backyard. No coyote in backyard. Page 8 had a notice to be on the lookout for a peddler. A door to door peddler with a beard. A peddler with a strong smell. A peddler trying to sell empty bottles. Last seen near Gordon Drive. Do not open the door for him. Call the police right away. So I finished my espresso. And then I drove to work.