Feature: Bob by Tegon Maus
The first time I heard it, I thought nothing of it at all... nothing. I've been in the newspaper game for more than twenty-seven years and that kind of experience gave a guy an edge but even that didn't prepare me.
I'd been beaten, shot at, even stabbed a couple of times over the years but I always got the story... always. But this one... this one was big... too big perhaps... Maybe we were ready, maybe not. Either way, it wasn't my call.
None of which filled me with the fear, the trepidation... the anguish of five little words that still haunted me today...
"Is okay. I have cousin."
Bob bent at the waist to whisper to Fred.
"Bob's cousin say three hundred, okay. Can get Bob's friend inside house."
"Good," I answered, feeling a little more triumphant.
"Yes, good. One thing more... maybe one or two insignificant little trinkets find way into Fred's pocket. No more than three. Bob cross heart," he said, earnestly.
"No. No one takes anything. We're just going to look around a little, maybe snap a few pictures but no one takes anything and no one gets hurt," I insisted.
"OOOh, Bob's friend not say no one get hurt. Things happen Fred not control. No one to get hurt... not good, not good. Fred say price now five hundred."
"Bob, you didn't even talk to him."
"Ahh, Bob sorry. We close family, sometimes have psychic connection."
Bob wrinkled his nose, holding up a hand before Fred. He turned his back to me, wriggling his fingers.
Irritated, I retrieved my wallet, fingering my way through my dwindling per diem, pushing four, one hundred dollar bills and two fifties into Bob's writhing fingers.
"Is good," he responded, counting them quickly.
To my annoyance, he stuffed a hundred into his shirt pocket before passing the balance to Fred.
A broad smile spread across the young man's face as he quickly pushed the money deep into his front pants pocket. Fred now bounced on the balls of his feet, weaving or dancing, or shadow boxing... I couldn't tell which, only that with my money in his pocket, he was excited.
He began to speak rapidly in Russian to Bob, turning his hat forward.
"Fred say, can now go," Bob announced, heading for the door, pulling it open for Fred.
The young man checked the hall, swinging his head quickly in both directions before jumping into the corridor as if hopping a train.
"Come. Bob's friend making Bob late," he admonished, waving an impatient hand toward the door.
"I am?" I questioned in protest.
"Bob's friend has no concept to time... shows a creative mind... very good for newspaper but not good for Bob, make Bob late."
There was no point in arguing.I just wanted to go and for it all to be over.
Both men were in good sprits, dancing to the music in the elevator, bolting to the car like a couple of kids once the doors opened.
Fred immediately pulled open the back door before jumping into the front seat with Bob.
I took my place, sliding to the middle of the seat.
The engine cranked and upon its failure to start, Fred turned in my direction.
"Dude," he voiced filled with disappointment, lifting his chin with discontent.
"Bob, Fred just called me dude."
"Is old Russian expression, means... is belt," he explained, rolling a hand over and over in the air as if to hurry up.
I snapped the belt with a loud click and an irritated look.
The next turn of the key brought the motor to life. Less than a heartbeat behind it, the stereo exploded to full volume as well, pounding out Queen's... "We Are the Champions."
As if waiting for a signal from me, the car was launched once again like a rocket into the night.
"Bob knows... good song," he returned cheerfully, peering at me in the rear view mirror, holding up his thumb as he careened down the street.
As the two men, oblivious to my discomfort, rocked out, singing along in Russian, I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the rough journey... for the third time in as many days.
I was grateful for the cover of darkness as our car sped down the highway at a frightening rate, swinging in and out of the sparse traffic. It was easier in the dark. I couldn't see the landscape flash by in a blur.
At long last we arrived, but to my surprise we passed the dirt side road we had taken a few days before.
"Fred say we not seen around corner," he answered, finally shutting off the stereo.
We slowed, pulling off on the shoulder as if we were looking for an address. Shortly, Bob pulled into a small clearing among the trees.
Fred was the first to get out, heading straight to the back of the car. Bob quickly followed, unlocking the trunk. By the time I got out they had retrieved whatever they were after.
"Bob, what are we doing?" I asked, pulling on my coat, joining them at the back of the car.
"Fred want to be careful, say, we go this way through trees," he answered, pointing to the woods.
I turned toward Fred, as he pulled a ski mask over his face. He crouched, leaning forward and began to tiptoe into the woods.
I was raised pretty much the same as everyone else... devoted mother, strict father and all the imaginary friends I could conjure. Not that I wasn't friendly, I just wasn't "people orientated". Maybe I lived in my head way more than I should have, maybe not. I liked machines more than people, at least I did until I met my wife.
The first thing I can remember writing was for her. For the life of me I can't remember what it was about... something about dust bunnies under the bed and monsters in my closet. It must have been pretty good because she married me shortly after that. I spent a good number of years after inventing games and prototypes for a variety of ideas before I got back to writing.
It wasn't a deliberate conscious thought, it was more of a stepping stone. My wife and I had joined a dream interpret group and we were encouraged to write down our dreams as they occurred. "Be as detailed as you can," we were told.
I was thrilled. If there is one thing I enjoy it's making people believe me and I like to exaggerate. Not a big exaggeration or an outright lie mine you, just a little step out of sync, just enough so you couldn't be sure if it were true or not. When I write, I always write with the effort of "it could happen" very much in mind and nothing, I guarantee you, nothing, makes me happier.
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