FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON

I was patrolling Highway 90 just as the sun was starting to raise the mist off the bayous.  It was a beautiful ride at this time of the morning.  I’d see deer, coyotes, alligators, and even wildcats slinking through the tall grass as I sat waiting for drunks and speeders. This lonely ribbon of highway connected dozens of tiny towns across the Gulf coast from Pensacola Florida to Brownsville Texas.  My territory was a 45 mile strip of 2 lane blacktop that ran through the swamps that separated Bayou Blue from Des Allemands.

Up ahead I saw a silver Camry with the flashers on.  As I started to pull over, I realized it was just a woman putting fresh flowers by one of those little wooden crosses at the side of the road.  I saw way too many of them along here.  The long-haul drivers in their custom rigs think they can run 70 miles an hour through here like they do on Interstate 10 – but there are too many small children, animals, and old men in slow-moving pick-ups for them to go that fast here.  Too many times, I’ve been the one to call the ambulance to clean up the mess and then tell a family the bad news about a loved one.

A call on the radio interrupted my thoughts.  “We have a missing person report on John Landry.  His wife reported he didn’t come home from fishing last night.”  Now, his wife and near everyone else knew that John did most of his fishing at Grumpy’s bar and grill.  He’d drink beer and shoot pool and hit on barflies until he got discouraged and went home.  I’ve certainly poured him into my back seat enough times to know this myself.  Sheriff Foti had a program that offered people a ride home in a squad car if they were too drunk to drive themselves.  There is no other transportation after dark.  You see, Curtis Landry (no relation) drives the only taxi for miles around and he goes home to his wife at 6 sharp for his plate of red beans and rice.  To hear him talk, that’s all he ever ate.  If that’s true, I’m not sure I’d ever want to ride in a closed car with him.

“I’ll pass by Grumpy’s and find out when John left there.”

“10-4.”

Since it was a Saturday morning, I knew if I went straight over there, Grumpy might still be closing up and I could catch him before he headed home to sleep while the rest of the world was just waking up.

As beer joints go, Grumpy’s was pretty tame and reasonably clean.  I’ve been known to stop for a beer and a pile of free crawfish on occasion.  Grumpy gave them away because he cooked them extra spicy so people would drink more. I like them hot. Grumpy liked to say I could swallow fire and spit ice cubes.  I took that as a compliment and I would stretch a single beer through 5 pounds of mouth-watering seafood before heading home to loosen my belt to take the pressure off a satisfied stomach.

I caught Grumpy as he was walking out to his ancient Buick Riviera.  “Was John Landry in your place last night? His wife says he didn’t come home.”

“He sure was.  He was hot and heavy with a blonde and I think he might finally have gotten lucky.”

“If so, he’s a dead man for sure when Carolyn finds out.”

I left Grumpy’s and got back out on the highway to ponder exactly what I’d divulge to John’s wife.  It didn’t take long before a kid on a crotch rocket blew past me doing triple digits.  Stupid kids…  I pulled him over and made sure it was his bike and that his record was clean.  The bike was only 4 days old.

“Do you know how small the pieces will be if someone changes lanes in front of you?” I said in my best “serious cop” voice.  He looked duly sorry and appropriately repentant.  So I gave him 20 miles over, which will still make him show up in court to pay his fine, and jack up his insurance as a monthly reminder to behave.  But, if I gave him the reckless driving he deserved, Judge Levy would pull his license for 6 months.

As I sat in the car finishing up the paperwork on the kid, I noticed a new wooden cross at the side of the road with a fresh bunch of daisies next to it.  In rough, block print letters was simply the name “Algernon”.  I don’t remember any accidents here lately. “Perhaps it was a pet mouse named after the one in that sci-fi story everybody had to read in high school.  Why not – they just made a (lousy) movie from it.

I wouldn’t be seeing any movies tonight.  I might just get lucky and find John Landry’s blonde at Grumpy’s if I hung there long enough.  Perhaps she would know where he decided to go and hide from is wife.  Any stakeout where I can have a few beers and shoot some pool is all right by me!

I was enjoying a cold beer and a cigarette when a tiny blonde woman purposefully walked over to me and stuck out her hand.  “Hi!  I’m Billie Jo!” said a sweet young voice just starting to be turned by cigarettes and Jack Daniels.  “Grumpy said you’re looking for John.”

I shook her tiny hand, and I felt the warmth of a young soul that hadn’t yet discovered how cold the world can be.  I told her that I was with the police and that he didn’t go home last night and had been reported missing.

She said she’d teased John a bit last night in order to get him to buy her drinks – but she didn’t leave with him.  “I just got him settled into his own car, gave him one last kiss goodbye, and then I got in my own car and left.”  There were a lot of men out there that might’ve thought they were entitled to more than a goodbye kiss and would hurt her to get it.  I’d have told her that, but I really didn’t want her to think of me as her father.  Sure - It was vain and a little chicken-shit. But I just wanted to take my cop hat off for a while…

I knew just where to do it.  About 20 miles out toward Des Allemands, there’s a little place called The Crossroads.  They usually had live music and they don’t know I’m a cop there.  It’s where I go when I’m in this sort of mood.

I could hear the wail of a blues guitar as I rolled into the parking lot.  As I stepped inside, there was a woman on the tiny stage all by herself playing guitar and pouring out her soul to 20 people engrossed in their own conversations and oblivious to her pain.  I was smitten…

The singer, Sara, noticed I was the only one really listening.  It wasn’t hard – applause from a single pair of hands is a sad and lonely sound. She sat by me at the bar when she took a break between sets.

“So you like my sound, huh?”

“Your guitar sounds like the devil, you sound like an angel, and together you sound like you’re bearing the weight of the whole world’s sins.”

“I should have you write my copy when I finally get noticed!” and she winked.

“So how did you start playing the blues?  Not too many women get into that…”

“I guess when I was younger, I wanted to be Bonnie Raite.  Then last year, my husband got on an Amtrak train with everything in my bank account and my best friend (and drummer).  I’ve been a solo act since then.  The blues can really echo in a lonely heart…”

“I think you’d do just fine writing your own copy. That sounds like the beginnings of an original song!” I said. I was truly impressed – I’d never been around an artist before.

“That thought is far from original – there are thousands of broken-hearted women that feel the same way!” she laughed.  Then she slammed the last half of her beer and announced it was “time to go earn some money so she could buy herself a train ticket and go beat the crap out of her husband and his whore.”  I wasn’t sure if that was entirely a joke…

“I wonder how you get even with a woman that steals all your money and runs away with your husband?” I mumbled, louder than I thought, because she answered “Let her have him!”  Then she blew me a kiss and hopped back on the stage.

Before I knew it, it was one o’clock in the morning and she was done playing for the night.

“Wanna go get some coffee and talk where the air isn’t so smoky?” she asked.  “I’d sure like to know what you look like in the light.”

That was all the invitation I needed.  She was interested in how I looked. That’s gotta mean something good!

I helped her load her guitar and amp into the back of her car.  One thing about a solo act – there wasn’t much equipment to load.  Good thing – it looked like she was living out of her car.  It looked like she might have everything she owned back there.  I let her pull out in front of me and I followed her down the road. About ten minutes out, she suddenly pulled over on the shoulder.  I pulled up behind her and shut off the engine.

“What’s the matter?”

“I think something is wrong with my car – it started making a funny noise.”

I went around to the front of the car to listen for myself.  I heard a strange noise alright – the clear metallic sound of the hammer being cocked back on a revolver.  Sure enough, she had a .357 Magnum pointed at my chest. “Not a very lady-like gun.” I thought. It’s strange what pops in your head when you’re about to die.

“You’re just like Al.  If I spread my legs you’d crawl right in without a second thought to your woman!”  People have threatened me with all kinds of weapons.  You can usually hear the fear in their voices.  Her voice was low and steady.  There was no fear in it.  As soon as she stopped talking, I was a dead man. So I tried to keep her going.

“How can you know that?  I told you earlier I’m a solo act too…”

“All men are liars!”

This was not going well.  “I’m NOT Al!” I cut back, just a little angry at the assumption.  I saw headlights rapidly approaching. Tall headlights.  If I time this right, I may be able to make a break for the swamp.  I don’t think she’d follow me in there…

The tractor trailer was doing well over 80 when he passed us. These guys push enough air in front of them to knock somebody over – especially at that speed when you’re standing less than 3 feet off the pavement.  When I saw her shoved by the rushing truck, I dove for the far side of car.  She still managed to fire a shot. The right side of my head exploded with pain, but I was alive because it hurt like hell. That settled, I passed out.

The next thing I remember, I’m staring into a flashlight beam.  “Are you OK, Bubba?”  the patrolman asked.  “You must’ve really pissed somebody off – they took a shot at you and then left your wallet and car here.  You’re lucky one of those alligators didn’t snatch you up and carry you off for dinner!” he added.

“How’d you find me?” I croaked.  My voice still didn’t work too good.

“The cute blonde back there called us in.  She pulled over to see if she could help this woman at the side of the road, and there you were.”

“What happened to the other woman?” I asked.

“She told Billie Joe that she couldn’t stand the sight of blood and had to leave before she puked.  Billie Joe got the license number, though.”

“Is he awake?” said a sweet, familiar voice. It was the same Billie Joe from Grumpy’s.  “Are you alright?” she asked, looking like an angel with a halo of police lights.

“I’m glad you came along.  I think that woman meant to kill me.”  Suddenly I was real glad she was too naïve to know how dangerous stopping for strangers on a dark, lonely road can be.

“I found something!” shouted one of the uniforms searching the scene.  He came forward with one of those little wooden crosses.  “Get rid of that – our boy here probably knocked that over while he was crawling around in the mud here…” started the Lieutenant in charge.  The uniform said “…but if it’d been here planted in the ground, the wood at the bottom would be starting to rot. This looks perfectly new.”  I noticed the single name on it – Algernon.  “Al’s full name?” I thought to myself.

“I think he’s right!” I said.  “We should look for any other crosses with that name on it. And spread the word - I don’t think I was the first man she’s taken out her anger on…”

They found 5 other crosses with Algernon on them.  There were 5 bodies neatly buried beneath them.  I was very nearly number 6.  The Algernon I saw while ticketing the kid on the motorcycle was for John Landry.  We found the car burned by the side of the road.  Not much evidence could be saved other than 3 similar crosses in the trunk.  She kept her guitar and amp.  My guess is, she’s still playing the blues somewhere.  And until she gets the pain out of her system, no man is safe alone with her…

"When a women gets the blues she hangs her head and cries.
When a man gets the blues he hops on a train and rides."