The Floccinaucinihilipilification of Fate's Foundation
Part V A Fricative Finality's Felicitation The country-western embroidery on his white flapping collar was stitched so right and this made the Sheriff very upset as he realized that at some point during the day he had spilled coffee on one of them. The gold thread was muddy and dark in one area near the tip. After he had a second to breathe and calm down he concluded that it didn’t matter so much since he would be going home any minute and a clean shirt awaited him in his closet, he was sure of it. There was a pale yellow hue about the light coming in through his office window; a winter yellow, not quite pastel but pallid. Light like that always made him know that it was mighty cold outside and that is how he would say it too, “It is mighty cold out there!” He wasn’t quite simple or slow, he was merely just attentive and didn’t mind mundane conversation. Idle chit-chat about the weather, round town gossip, deep conversations had by stupid people regarding profound topics that they surely could barely grasp; these topics made up the better part of all of his exchanges. Walk through town around noon for lunch and “hey, howya doin’?’s” - this was his ‘beat’. Drive around the lake and up to the church and back to the general store for a little park time and coffee - this is probably when said spilling event occurred. One more stroll in the evening before it was off to the house where the local switchboard would send all ‘9-11’ calls right to the phone next to his bed. One sheriff, one town; a county officer did two drive throughs in the early hours; one at one and another at four - a.m. that is. During the day (of post juice and muffin at the restaurant at 6 a.m.) he would talk to many people and pack many a cheek of Redman - that is where the stain came from, it was a spat of chaw that dribbled wrong, right from the inception of the spit, and two drops kissed the collar. Quite the detective! In between the stops that made up his day he had a lot of windshield time made up mostly of tobacco juice expectoration and songs by ‘Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys’; in between song lyrics he would tell himself stories. He told himself all of the stories of his memories over and over again like a stuttering redundancy of fading facsimile. Everyday he could remember, every face he had ever seen, all of the songs he had heard, places he had been, all of the facts of the arson case that he had solved when he first started out as sheriff. Sewn thick and raised and fortified and strong like the lapel loops laced up in gold. He was really upset about the shirt; he really hoped it would wash out. He was not known to dribble, drool, or drip - no Sir-ee indeed. He stood up from his desk, tucked in each elephant ear flap of shirt into his slacks and then buttoned and zipped them up. He always sat behind his desk with his pants undone as it afforded him the convenience and luxury of feeling relaxed and soothed as he struggled through any paperwork that would force find him in that chair that he so hated to sit in (funny and quite odd that he never loosened his tie). He used to have sex with his third wife in that chair when they were dating while he still had wife number two. He stopped marrying after marriage six. No kids throughout any of it and no alimony either. He had screwed up many times but was a lucky bastard all the same. All he had to do now is grab his hat and coat, sneak past the mayor, and get into the truck; he then would be home free. Since he was still ‘on call’, home free did not mean as much as it does to regular folks and their versions of home free, but it was still in a homeward direction none the less. Just as his palm hit the exit bar on the front door, the mayor popped his head around the corner and made some snide remark about the ‘God forsaken mail situation’ and then demanded that they have a pow-wow in the common post office box area. He thought to himself, “So close, yet so far”; he made a mental note to Google that phrase when he got home as he wanted to where it originated from. He really, really liked Google; it let’s his brain rest and just focus on stories. He walked into the mail room to the thunderous verbal vomit of, “The Lunatic needs to come get his mail. I am sick and tired of stacking it up in crates and waiting for him to miraculously appear to claim it. I want this dropped off on your way home and it made perfectly clear that this is not the ‘Storage Company for the Madcap’ but rather home to your office, my office, and … THE GOD FORSAKEN POST OFFICE!” The sheriff focused very hard on his stained lapel as it was much more calming than listening to the mayor rant on one more time about the Lunatic and his mail; he thought it to be quite jejune and was exceptionally happy that that word came to mind as it was proof that the ‘dictionary reading game’ that he had been playing was paying off. He looked up and asked the mayor if that was all and upon an exchange of nods he responded with a simple, soft, and easy, “No problem.” Screaming was not a favourite interaction for the sheriff as it reminded him of wives one, four, and six, plus a teacher that he had back in the second grade that he will never, ever forget; this is the only complaint that he had about the mayor. He loaded up the three boxes of bills, cards, post cards, fliers, advertisements, magazines, periodicals, and about one hundred leaflets with missing children on them with the question plainly printed beneath them, “Have you seen me?”. As he loaded the boxes he intently listened to the swish swoosh swish that the sleeves of his nylon coat as he reached into the back of the truck and then pulled his arms out again. Each box was a big series of swish swoosh swish; he liked that. He pulled his pouch out and loaded up a cheek, tucking the pouch back in his breast pocket. He pulled down his synthetic fur collar as it tended to make him hot once he got going in the truck and the heater kicked in; sometimes he took his jacket completely off but today was far too cold for that and he would be getting out for postal delivery in just a few minutes; he also knew that it covered up his collar which was now probably an issue requiring at least a couple sessions of therapy. Bob Wills saved that thought and offered up some distracting classic country. Ahhhh, the Texas Playboys. As he backed out and made his way through the intersection in town there were many waiving hands and smiles. He liked that. He was somebody, someone that really mattered and made a difference. The sheriff was that friendly guy that really, really listens to you. He was a sheriff of the people, elected by the people, and for the people. The electric motor made a whisper whimper whirring while cracking the window enough for the expulsion of some tobacco juice. He smiled and bits of leaf covered one of his incisors. The route was pretty straight forward and is long enough to listen to ‘Spanish Fandango’ and get halfway through ‘I Can’t Go On This Way’. Straight up the hill to the north of town and a right onto Valley Lane. Real simple, real easy; he wondered why the mayor had made him so damn mad. The Lunatic’s house was worn well by the weather and everything was either overgrown or dead, there was no in-between. The sheriff knew the old woman across the street and thought her to be nice and friendly enough - she tended to focus all of the conversations on the topic of her grandson and all of his great achievements. A dotting grandmother and her little high achiever. The sheriff remembered when her daughter was sent out of town, exiled, when she was fifteen for getting pregnant as a result of a love tryst with the Lunatic who achieved his reclusive insanity has a result of the witch hunt that ensued. The old woman pretends that it never happened as some sort of guilt ridden denial fed monster of amnesia contorting each reflection with the mastication of struggle. Senility feeds that monster well. She is to the point that she honestly does not know anymore. Poor boy had no idea. Poor boy has no idea. Not much ever inspired sadness in this man of law but this was an exception. The truck rolled up right in front with it’s nose lined up tight with the edge of the drive. Precision parking was something the sheriff took enormous pride in. No one would take notice this time either, no one ever took notice but him. As he walked around to the back of the truck he spots the Lunatic in his chair by the window at the table. He was known to always sit there these days, taking in the sun and staring of into space with his back to the world. The sheriff shouted out as he grabbed two of the boxes at once and hollered once more as he moved his way up the walk to the front porch. The chair inside hears footsteps and the sheriff has no idea that the chair can even hear. After retrieving all the boxes and stacking them all nice and neat and lined up on the front porch he lifts the old iron knocker and rat-a-tat-tat’s the door. The Lunatic is still. The sheriff walks to the edge of the rotting porch and hocks out a good one that makes it just past the curb. Rat-a-tat-tat! He pulls up his collar to prevent the wind from nipping at his nape. He thinks about the series of international pantomimes that we use to communicate with people of other tongues. He wonders about the people during the rise of the automobile that had to alter their gestures from a ‘yee-haw’ whipping motion to the now standard and generally accepted moving-the-steering-wheel-from-side-to-side motion. That seemed to eat up the appropriate amount of pausing time and another ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ was audibly received. Mail on porch, thrice knockings, good deed done. As he walked back towards the truck he hears the screen door across the street whack-a whack-a smack shut. Out of avoidance and distraction he returns to the pantomime question. He momentarily notes how much of the world is made up of distraction and swiftly moves onto the distraction at hand. One big spit; coat off for this part of the journey. Home awaited the man of the law. The sun had some red to it that brightened up the yellow as the oranges nestled against the horizon in a spoon. Cold air sunsets, cold air days. He turned the radio up a notch higher than usual. White ghosts of exhaust danced behind him as he drove home to bed. Old sand and salt sit in the gutters wondering what will become of them. They try to think of a distraction. Cold sheets and warm blankets await his arrival. “Good night sweet prince, good night. " R.E. Knowlton III ©2008
