Overtime Is Overrated

Now, I ain't never told a story before, not sat down and scribbled one on paper anyhow. Comin' up in 1960s Mississippi didn't lend much thinking to anything but keeping my black hide on my black ass. There's some hateful people down there back then. That's why I come up here in '75 to find work. Well, that and chasing this big-legged caramel-colored gal kept runnin' 'round my brains and causing a ruckus in my draws. But that's a whole 'nother ordeal right there.

I decided to write this all down 'cause I came upon this little black notebook. I figure that's what the damn thing is for, to tell this helluva tale about how I got it…

So, I was driving to work drinking a beer minding my own damn business. 7:45 on a sunny, 73 degree, March Saturday morning. Fantastic weather for Indianapolis that time of year. But, anyway, I'm drinking and driving 'round I-465, windows down, NWA’s Fuck the Police - ‘cause I'm old skool like that- turned to top volume headed to work. On a Saturday. Who the hell needs a construction plumber on a Saturday? Brand spanking new apartments? 292 units? Ain't no water so there can't be no problems. But the overtime was mandatory so I was on my way minding my own damn business.

Traffic was minimal. A great ride. No rush hour cars honking or ridin' my ass or truckers tryin' to squeeze in lanes a Hot Wheels couldn't fit. Just an easy, peaceful ride.

I heard the car coming before I saw it. Engine sputtering like a rabid lawn mower, a little white Mazda something or other with black quarter panels and dark tinted windows was threatening to race right out my rearview mirror. I paid the little go-cart no mind, sparked my joint, and, allowing the smoke to punch at my lungs, closed my eyes to the road for a second or three. Then, abracadabra, the little car was right beside me, I in the fast lane running 80 mph it keeping pace. Suddenly, that car’s engine buzzed like a swarm of psychotic bees and was quickly passing me. Kids, I thought, a smoke-saturated chortle billowing from my throat. Those crazy bees under that tiny hood must have been buzzing on coca leaf nectar. That engine droned a hiss from the hollows of Hell, and that little car shot half a car length ahead of me and began to merge. Before I could hit the brake or cough or fart, the Mazda’s tail whale-slapped my bumper. At 80 mph, my car screeched toward the shoulder to a pavement squealing halt all by itself with my hands strangling the wheel and foot stomped on the brake, narrowly missing the barrier wall. WTF?! I thought in text talk like my granddaughter had taught me. I sat there a tick or two, willed my hands from their chokehold on the steering wheel, snatched up my joint and took a hard toke.

Breathing smoke from my nostrils, I grabbed a beer from “Big Blue”- the 100 quart ice chest riding in the backseat of my quad cab- stepped out on the shoulder of the highway to assess the damage the crazed, insect propelled vehicle had caused to my own. Passenger side headlight broke. Some white paint where there should have been gray. Dent on passenger side fender. This I evaluated, drinking my beer.

Out of nowhere, cherries and berries, red and blue lights strobed forebodingly atop the police cruiser that pulled up behind me. I sighed heavily, took a big gulp of my beverage.

“Morning. You OK?” the officer asked, walking towards me.

“Yeah, I'm good,” I replied.

He walked right up next to me to look at what I was looking at, naked face all pink with that tiny little square patch of hair atop his head. His eyes locked, briefly, on the can in my right hand. He took two, slow, short steps back and rested his right hand on his side arm.

“You hit something?" He questioned.

“Nope,” I said. “ Something hit me.”

Canine head tilt and a glaring stare was his response. So, I told him all about me headed to work on this sunny Saturday minding my own damn business and the baby car with the crazy bees and how it hit me.

“How long you been drinking?” he asked me.

“Since I was 13,” I answered.

“Today.”

“Oh. This’s my second beer.”

“Mind doing a sobriety test?”

I downed the remainder of my beer and handed Officer Ask-Too-Many-Damn-Questions the empty can. “Nope.”

Now, there I was dancing on the shoulder of the highway, putting on a show like I was on Broadway for the policeman and all the people passing by. I walked straight lines straight, stood on one foot and, then, the other while touching the tip of my nose with each index finger in turn with my damn head tilted back. I had shiny light shined in my eyes and had to recite the damn alphabet. The alphabet?

“I know my damn ABC’s, man,” I stated indignantly.

“Yea but you gotta say ‘em backwards too.” he smiled.

“I'm 64 years old, man. Do you have a time machine in that holster for me to go back to when I was 6 and thought knowing the letters from the ass end was the coolest shit since the Etch-a-Sketch?”

“Nope.” he said, smiling a smile bigger than the last smile.

I sighed, said my ABC’s forwards and, stumbling a bit less than I figured, backwards.

"I ain't drunk." I said.

After all these damn calisthenics, he had me blow into his damn breathalyzer. It said I wasn't drunk neither.

“You can't be drinking beer and driving or on the side of the highway.” stated Officer Now-Fuckin-Friendly.

“I know the deal. Just trying to get to work.”

"Your boss don't mind you drinking on the job?"

"Hell, I got boogers older than his dumb ass. He's just the owner's cousin's nephew's son or some shit and they trying to give him a break."

“Get goin’,” he said with a salute and walked back to his cruiser.

In my car, the radio clock read 8:56am. I had three missed calls from the lead man on the project at work. I didn't wanna open another beer with Officer Fuckin-ABC sitting behind me so I reached in the ashtray, snatched up the half of joint and lit up. Held the smoke. Exhaled. The policeman pulled off and I right behind him. I called Tommy, my foreman, told him the kiddie version of my mishaps of the morning, and assured I was on my way.

Three exits later, I had six cigarettes and knew those wouldn't last me throughout the day. Right next to the worksite sits a gas station. Old and a bit dilapidated, the homeless and drunkards and dope fiends and crazies from surrounding downtown neighborhoods loitered and begged and talked to walls and the air and each other at all times of day. I pulled in to make my nicotine purchase right at pump nine. Coincidentally, I pulled up right behind a white Mazda with black fenders. I was positive it was the same Mazda with the bees under the hood 'cause I have learnt in life that coincidences are not so coincidental. And, sure enough, surveying the ass of the car, the tail had gray paint where there should have been white, the bumper dented a bit. I lit a cigarette, leaned back against my truck, and waited.

Like his vehicle, I heard him before I saw him. High-pitched drivel cascaded over the lot above the din of traffic, loiterers and the squeaking door he came out of. He was tall- too tall to be in that bitty car- skinny as a bulimic skeleton, and tattoos colored the pasty skin his face and neck and arms. The shrill sound of his voice still twittering to no one in particular, he popped the top of his energy drink. I shook my head. Kids, I thought again, exhaling cigarette smoke and slowly walked towards his car so he and I would meet at his driver side door.

I saw him see me before he knew he saw me. A stutter step and brief quell of the screeching chatter tells.

“What's up, old school?” he threw at me.

“Ain't shit, youngster. Pulled in here to get me some cigarettes and saw your car. I need to talk at you a minute." I explained. "You hit my truck.” I said.

“I hit your truck?”

"Fuck's your name? Polly? Yeah, you hit my truck. On the highway? Running about 90? 30, maybe, 45 minutes or so ago? You got my paint on your car to prove it." He followed me to the back of his toy and I pointed.

"You trippin', Pops," he said. "That's been there months."

I just stared at his lying face, his lying eyes darting like hummingbirds with their asses on fire. I sighed.

"You want a beer?" I asked. It must have been one of them made up holidays we have nowadays, National Dog-Head Day or something strange, 'cause this kid canine-cocked his head same as the cop had earlier. "I'll get you a beer." I said.

I turned, took one step, and he punched me, caught me flush on my right ear. Over the stinging pain and ringing whine, I heard the denizens of the gas station roar in awe. Quickly as I could, I turned back toward my attacker, fists raised to guard and strike as my daddy had taught me so many years ago.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry. " apologized Skeleton-Man, dropping to his knees before me. "I'm high. And you scared me. I just got scared. Please don't call the police!! I'm on parole and I have dope in the car. And a gun. I can't go back to prison…"

On and on and on he went. Told me how he had been up for six and a half days straight smoking and selling methamphetamine, and how he and his father had ran a train on his stepmother four months before 'cause they were all high and horny and she needed content for her onlyfans page and he was positive the baby in her belly was his and that was why he couldn't go back to prison 'cause he had to take care of his baby. He said all of this and more, still kneeling in front of me at the damn gas station.

"Here." He said, standing quickly and producing a little black notebook from the back pocket of his cargo shorts and handing it to me. "I'm sorry." And, before I could spit, he was in his little car, that insectile engine buzzing, and speeding out of the gas station. I stood staring after him until I heard the bees no more. WTF?! I thought.

Back in my truck, I opened the cover of the notebook. Three bills- two hundreds and a fifty- slipped out onto my lap. They weren't new but flat as if ironed. I turned the first page and the next and the one after that until the end. Each page, 80 damn pages, had the same denomination of bills- $250- taped to its front. $20,000.

The cellphone on the seat beside me rang.

"Yea." I answered.

"Where the fuck are you, Willie?!"

Tommy.

"At the gas station." I replied.

"If you're on site in 5 minutes, you're fired!" He declared.

I'll bet the super-stupid pup thought he could fire me too. I had worked for that outfit for 28 years, the owner was one of my closest friends. I was 5 months from my 65th birthday and retirement at year's end. I looked down at the little black notebook in my lap, smiled, reached back and grabbed a cold one from the ice chest.

"Ok." I replied, started my truck and headed for home.