A Blue Whale of a Tale by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

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A Blue Whale of a Tale by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | AUG 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Blue Whale of a Tale

by Mike Bozart

© 2018 Mike Bozart 

 

 

 

 

 

 

William ‘Bill’ Kent Bluestone, a 63-year-old, five-years-widowed, gray-to-white-haired, still-spry-though-now-semi-retired Caucasian American, emerged from the East River Mountain Tunnel in his nicely restored, engine-recently-rebuilt, maroon, 1979 Mercury Cougar on northbound Interstate 77. He promptly veered to the right and took Exit 1 for Bluefield (West Virginia). It was a sunny, and now quite mild, 11:02 AM on this mid-April (2016) Tuesday; the spring sunshine had now scoured all of the fog from the dales. As Bill motored westward on US 52 North, he mused. Ah, headed back to once-upon-a-very-diffferent-sort-of-time-a-boomtown-though-still-very-scenic-with-nice-cool-summers Bluefield, West Virginia – the birthplace of John Forbes Nash, Jr. [the famous (deceased May 23, 2015 due to a taxicab-guardrail collision on the New Jersey Turnpike) mathematician whose life was the basis of the 2001 movie ‘A Beautiful Mind’] Game theory. Differential geometry. Partial differential equations. Complex systems. And schizophrenia. What a world-class genius to emerge from such a humble, run-of-the-mine, valley-and-ridge town in Appalachia. A radiant diamond in the thick, dark, bituminous swath.

Four minutes later, Bill eased right and made a left turn at a traffic light in front of a Big K-Mart. He was now on two-lane Cumberland Road. About a mile and a quarter (2 km) further, he made another soft right, which had him staying on US 52 North; this residential, south-side-to-downtown connector was Bland Road. Soon the old, double-yellow-line-divided, asphalt street was whipping back and forth. At Oakhurst Avenue, he saw the old, round, stone-and-mortar-basin fountain on the right. It’s still there. And, it’s still working. Nice flowers. Wonder who’s maintaining it now. Is crazy Cathy still alive? When was the last time I saw her? 1999 in Charlotte with sexy Martha at Surf Inn. Woah. Has it really been 17 years? Where did all that time go? Or flow? From East to New. [Rivers]

While stopped at the College Avenue traffic light, he noticed the Little Caesars restaurant on the right. Should I get a small pizza now? Nah, I’m not really that hungry. Wonder if the older Latina still works there. What was her name? María? Maybe. I bet that she has moved on.

The light turned green. He curved to the right, and soon passed the Harley-Davidson dealership. Always tempting to get another bike. But, I’m sure that I would lay it down again. Probably for the final, fatal time. The reflexes just aren’t what they were. The ‘joy’ of being old. Bleh!

At a four-faced clock, the road forked into one-way streets. Federal Street descended into the central downtown area. At Raleigh Street, Bill turned right, went a block, and parked on the curb next to a four-story, century-old, beige-brick-only-on-the-first-level building.

He stepped into the soon-to-be-functioning tavern with a medium-size, creek-silt-brown, cardboard box under his left arm. A slender, attractive, late-30-ish African American woman was polishing the dark-red-stained, extra-long, wooden bar.

“Hello there,” she merrily said. “Do you have a package for us?” Strange, he’s not wearing a typical, delivery-company uniform.

“I do,” Bill replied. “Is Steve in?”

“Steve had to run an emergency-parts errand,” she informed. “He should be back in ten to fifteen minutes. Can I sign for it?” Emergency parts? Is he picking up a new prosthetic leg? Why’d I think that? Because of my age.

“Well, there’s nothing to sign for at this point. It’s an ultra-rapid chiller for canned beverages. Would you like to see the demo?” Oh, he’s a salesman. Should have known.

“How long will it take?” He had better make it quick. I’ve got too much work to do for a longwinded sales pitch. Grand opening is only four days away.

“Just a minute. Would you happen to have a hot beer?” A ‘hot’ beer?

“How hot?” She guffawed. She’s certainly a hottie.

“Oh, just room temperature. I’m sorry, what is your name?”

“Melodie. Just a sec.” Denim-legged Melodie then began walking towards a behind-the-bar storeroom.

“No rush, Melodie. I’m Bill – Bill Bluestone. This is my sole appointment today.” Wonder where this old dude came from. Charleston? [WV] Roanoke? Winston-Salem? With that last name, he just may be from the Bellepoint-Hinton [WV] area.

She soon returned. “Ok, here you go, Mr. Bluestone. This can of Elkins [WV] Big Timber Porter will cost you five dollars. Just kidding; it’s on the house.”

“Why, thanks, Melodie. I actually prefer dark beer.”

“Ok, I’m all eyes and ears, sir. Show me your device’s magical cooling trick.” Magical?

Bill then extricated the black, metal, styrofoam-protected, miniature-refrigerator-looking machine from the box. “Ok, Melodie, I just need a standard, grounded, 110-volt receptacle. AC, of course.” He’s weird.

“I’ve got one right here behind the bar. Just give me the plug.” I’d love to give her the plug alright, but no blue pills. Is she single? / Receptacle and plug. Wonder if this old guy picked up on the sexual allusions. Probably not.

“Ok, thanks, Melodie.”

Melodie plugged in the medium-gauge cord. “You’ve got a 20-amp circuit to yourself. Will that be sufficient, Bill?” It had better be.

“More than sufficient, Melodie. This thing only draws eight amperes, max.” Please, no fire.

“Ok, do you need anything else?” Hope not.

“No, we’re all good for show.” Good ‘for show’? Not ‘to go’? Another oddball salesman.

“Ok, you’ve got one minute, Bill. The clock is now ticking.” She’s probably had some annoying vendors in the past. / Really don’t have time for this, but he has been polite so far.

Bill then assumed his TV-infomercial-sounding, polished, über-persuasive persona. “Forty-five degrees [Fahrenheit; 7º Celsius] in forty-five seconds. Yes, the KraftKanKooler^® 2K will cool your seventy-five-degree [Fahrenheit; 24º Celsius] can of craft beer – up to a half-liter [16.9 oz.] – yes, pints are fine, too – to forty-five degrees Fahrenheit in a mere three-fourths of a minute. You just put your can – cans only, please – no glass bottles – in here, close the door, push the button, and voilà!”

Melodie looked at the device, very intrigued, yet almost expecting to see smoke emitted at any moment as a crinkling sound commenced. Bet it’s not UL-approved.

Bill just looked at his digital wristwatch that was in stopwatch mode. He started to hum Row, row, row your boat somewhat ridiculously. Melodie shook her head. Has Steve actually met this man? I bet that this Bill guy cold-called him.

A bell dinged. Bill opened the door and extracted the now-chilled brew. He handed the can to Melodie.

“Wow! This is definitely not warm anymore. How much are you charging for this unit, mister?”

“Oh, it’s too soon to get into the numbers, Melodie. Say, do you remember a live-music bar in the basement of the old Elks Building? It was just two blocks west of here, I believe. I think that it was called Jo Cody’s.” Joe Codie’s?

“No, I sure don’t. That may have been before my of-legal-age bar time.” Hope that didn’t make him feel ancient. / Of-legal-age? Was she a wild teenager?

“Yeah, probably so. Well, there was a night back in the winter of ’90 – ‘91. A Beatles-esque, four-piece band from North Carolina was playing there. I think their name was The Ravelers. Yeah, that was it. They had a warm sound on that cold night. Well, after the show, I am standing on the corner of Raleigh and Bland, and I overhear a pair of 20-something guys talking. The dark-haired one, who appears to be quite intoxicated on a psychoactive substance, tells the red-haired one that he is ready for some ‘high adventure’, and that he is going to ‘jump a train to Maine’. Well, that’s when he bolts down the hill towards the railyard.” Oh, boy …

“Hitching a ride on a freight train bound for Maine?” Melodie asked rhetorically. “Most likely he would have been arrested before reaching Welch.” [WV]

“I agree. These two were obvious out-of-towners, probably tagging along with the band. They wouldn’t have known the Pocahontas coal seam from a chicory-covered field.”

“Ah, Bill, you must have passed that Bluefield 101 course.” Though, I don’t think he’s from around here. Must remember to ask him later. Let’s not forget.

“Just the West Virginia version, Melodie. Anyway, what’s the deal with the two Bluefields? A common, almost-a-perfectly-straight-slant, bisecting boundary; yet completely separate towns, am I right?”

“You are. And did you know that Bluefield, Virginia is actually west of Bluefield, West Virginia?” Huh? No way. She must be mistaken.

“Is that so?” Bill then looked at a map on his smartphone. “Wow! You’re right, Melodie. I’ll win a bar bet somewhere with that counterintuitive geographic tidbit. Thanks.”

“Sure. No problem, Bill. Way back when I attended Bluefield State College, I remember a professor saying that the reason for the two distinct neighboring towns was the state line. Something about West Virginia and Virginia having different tax rates, alcohol laws, ordinances, codes, etc.” And state-government-sacred revenue streams.

“And different state politicians with voting districts that neither state would gladly forfeit,” Bill added with a chuckle.

Melodie then chuckled, too. “Ok, enough of that sidebar; please continue with your little story, Bill.”

“Well, the dark-haired dude soon enters the railyard, sprints over several pairs of tracks, turns to his right behind a stationary hopper car, and is gone – he disappears.”

“And then what?” a blank-expression-maintaining, ironed-white-cotton-non-ironic-T-shirt-wearing Melodie asked.

“We just stand on the corner in the darkness for an hour as the fog overtakes the railyard,” Bill dryly stated. What in the world?! This old-timer is off his freaking rocker.

“And that’s how your slice-of-life vignette from a quarter-century ago concludes?” Melodie was disappointed with the non-ending. Hope this old chap isn’t trying to become a writer. That was one awful letdown of an ending.

“Just kidding. No, it doesn’t quite end there. The red-haired guy then runs down the hill to the railyard, searching for his ready-to-flee-by-coal-car pal. Then about two minutes later, the dark-haired dude emerges to my right on Raleigh Street. He had apparently come back up the hill on Federal Street. We glance at each other, and then he ducks back into the club. The end. A blue whale of a tale, wouldn’t you say?” Blue whale, my ass! That was lame as hell. He’s just passing time – and wasting mine – in epic-fail fashion.

“What about the red-haired guy?” Melodie asked, now feeling even more disappointed with her time investment.

“Yes, what about him?” Bill chortled. “Well, I never saw him again. It was late. I was tired. I walked back to my Burmese girlfriend-at-the-time’s apartment on Commerce Street, let myself in, and instantly fell asleep. That’s the at-no-extra-charge epilogue.” That’s an epilogue? Oh, please!

“I think that I will be demanding a refund, Mr. Bluestone.” Melodie laughed.

“Just invoice me, net thirty,” Bill requested in a mock-official tone of voice. He then had a laugh.

“Bill, where are you from? I mean, where do you live?”

“The exact address?”

Melodie chuckled. “Just the city or town.”

“I’m originally from Dover, Delaware. I live in Fancy Gap [VA] now. My sales territory was the I-77 corridor from Charleston down to Charlotte.”

Suddenly a stocky, light-brown-haired, mid-40s-appearing guy walked in. He was toting two tan-colored Lowe’s bags. “It’s a meatball-a-minute world, I tell ya. I always seem to get in the hillbilly meth-head checkout line. So, girlfriend, might this be Bill?” Ah, an interracial couple. Nice.

“Bill, meet Steve, my boyfriend-slash-brewmeister,” Melodie announced. Oh, it’s going to be a microbrewery, and this is the taproom. Sweet. Hope they can make it.

Bill extended his right hand. Steve shook it robustly.

“Pleased to meet you, Steve.”

“Sorry I’m late, Bill. I discovered an urgent plumbing issue, and had to shut off the water. Should have it fixed in twenty minutes. So, about your fast chiller …”

“It’s amazing!” Melodie interjected.

Bill successfully repeated his demo, but sans caveat. When he returned to his car to retrieve some forms, Steve inserted a bottled beer.

<BOOM>

Steve paid the ultimate, serrated-glass-shard-artery-slicing price. Melodie, who was farther away, only suffered minor abrasions.