Chapter Four
Like I said
before, so much about Bull was almost mythic.
After awhile I had kind of decided that some of the things I thought I
was witnessing could be chalked up to lack of sleep, or overindulgence in our
drug of choice. From time to time I
would see something that a normal person might find unbelievable, or might
think them self insane for granting what their eyes had witnessed more than an
instants distraction in their finely structured brain. I had once seen him fall asleep at the round
table with a lit cigarette in his hand and I watched it snuff out on his face…
“Bull! Wake up madman… that’s gonna leave a mark…”
“Wha… huh?” He barely
opened his eyes and folded his arms in front of him, extinguished cigarette
still caught between two fingers, but clearly smashed.
“Whackjob you just put your
cigarette out on your face.”
“What, this cigarette?” His eyes
were closed but he held up his hand with the butt between his fingers. “Fuck it anyways… I’m tired, man.” He threw
the used butt on the hardwood floor.
His face was unscathed. I had seen people with scars from their
stepdad, mom, or husband putting cigarettes out on their skin, but Bull’s face
was unblemished where I had watch his head fall onto his hand and put that
cigarette to rest.
“What the fuck, man… Are you the
devil? Are you impervious to fire?”
“Ha!” Bull chuckled as he started to
fall out into his folded arms. “Fucker,
don’t you know I’m mean enough to kill the devil himself? What does impervious mean?”
“Clearly it’s what your face is to
fire.”
“Hmph…yeah I knew that, I was just
seeing if you did,” he mumbled through his makeshift fleshy pillow. “Impervious… I like that.”
One rainy night I had also watched a
pitcher of anhydrous ammonia freak out and rage up, spitting its 28 below zero
contents into the watchful face and eyes of my friend, Bull. He merely stepped back and fanned his hand in
front of his face as if he had walked into an elevator where someone had cut
and extraordinarily rank fart. When he
turned around his eyes were watering a bit, but for all other intensive
purposes his pristine skin was intact, and he was still talking with his usual
carefree southern drawl.
“Well, I guess we need to get up
there and patch the roof up a bit. That,
my friend, is why you never use any water around your anny.” He pointed towards the ceiling where another
rainwater drip was collecting on a wooden beam.
He didn’t know this, but several weeks before I met Bull I saw the
aftermath of a similar incident. That
poor kid was coughing up bits of his throat and lungs, as direct contact with
anhydrous ammonia immediately freezes and draws out any moisture, effectively
killing the flesh of a mere human. Bull
barely had to wipe his eyes.
I had my own opinions about Bull,
and I shared them with him from time to time.
Mostly they were greeted by that fierce grin, and mischievous blazing
blue eyes. I think he toyed with the
reverence I had for him, whether he was just getting lucky, or if there was
something more at play. He never
outright denied any of my outlandish ideas that he was witch or incahoots with
demons or devils. But he claimed
agnosticism constantly, which left me wondering what sort of magic he
practiced, or if I had just started to completely lose my mind on dope. Either way, I never once felt like I was in
jeopardy or felt any imminent danger to my life or liberty.
This brings me to the story of how
Bull went from being just my friend to becoming my great friend and master
of the human condition. It was a brilliant day on the farm. There was different music coming from all
corners of his land, and the sun was shining.
The weather had not yet turned from tolerable crisp spring 60’s to the
unbearable 90’s and intolerable humidity of the river valley summers. Everyone who wanted to be was high. Laughter was in great abundance, and conversations
were deep and tolerated banter and debate on all levels. The several mobile homes and campers that
bull had stationed on his property to house his vagabond friends and people he
had spent time in prison with were open and people were coming and going as
they saw fit. Then I met Roxy.
Roxy was Bull’s second ex-wife and
mother of three of his biological children, whose names were not surprising at
all to me. Andras, Jinn, and Samael were
overall wearing, puddle-stomping, rock-chucking, bug catching (and sometimes
eating, on a do-or-dandy double dare) kids, straight out of a depression-era
farm family picture. Andras and Samael
were clean cut boys whose muscle structure was well-defined for boys of 9 and
13. Jinn had a home-styled bob haircut
and was a deceptively pretty little girl coming in at 7 years old with the
mouth of a sailor. I had come to know
them from their infrequent visits to the farm.
They were always dropped off by Bull’s stepmom, who was the only grandma
they ever knew. When they would show up,
all illicit work and activity would come to screeching halt and most everybody
in our circle would pack up their toys and scurry off to wherever they called
home. I never hurried off, as my
mysterious friend’s offspring fascinated me, as well as his immediate switch
from Bull to Daddy.
Bull never ran me off either. Instead he assigned me a child to
entertain. Jinn was rarely without her
daddy, as she instigated a twinkle in bulls fiery eyes and I could tell he
favored her, as his youngest daughter. I
spent a great deal of time with the two boys, and quickly learned that they had
been pre-destined for the names Bull had decided to give them. He had given them the names of biblical
demons. No small feat for a man with a
seventh grade education, proclaiming agnosticism.
One of the favorite activities that
the boys participated in (and sometimes Jinn) was the unadulterated demolition
of a random vehicle of Bull’s choice.
Bull prided himself on having 247 titled vehicles in various states of
disrepair and decay on the farm, and from time to time he would pick out a
half-buried, vine-ridden, ancient relic with the windows intact and rust-eaten
body for the kids to wreck havoc upon.
The tools of destruction were carefully picked by Bull; usually heavy
sledge hammers, gigantic pipe and crescent wrenches, aluminum baseball bats,
and there were always gigantic rocks neatly stacked in a pyramid-
style
pile. I have no idea when he would
arrange these fantastic displays of destructive potential, but those kids never
had a dull moment when they came to visit him.
I was fascinated with them. These
children were very well behaved despite Jinn’s affinity for four-letter words,
but when we would round the corner and they would see the tools and rocks
stacked neatly by an ancient Oldsmobile, screeches of primal joy would pierce
the air and their passive, respectful behavior would abandon them for a
half-hours worth of Lord of the Flies style debauchery. It was truly something to behold.
This particular day, Roxy appeared
seemingly out of nowhere, and she had none of the children in tow. I could tell she had been a pretty girl at
one time, petite yet scrappy and nearly 20 years Bull’s junior. She was wearing a fresh shiner on her left
eye and cursing like a pirate. Her face
was wet with sweat and tears, eyeliner running down her cheeks in narrow
smudges.
Bull and I immediately stood up from
our chairs situated in front of a particularly large pile of primarily old
bottles and tin cans. We were discussing
how such a pile came to exist in this particular location and debating which
bottles would make the coolest bongs.
“What seems to be troubling you,
Roxy?” Bull asked nonchalantly. I could tell he was sizing her situation up,
and had already inventoried her shiner and ragged appearance.
“Who is this fucking guy?” Roxy shook her fist in my direction and I
could see that her knuckles were bloodied and swollen.
“He’s a friend of ours. The kids love the shit out of him. What’d you do? You look like something the coyote ate and
shit off over the cliff!”
She blatantly cast her eyes up and
down in my direction, perhaps deciding if I was friend of foe. I was neither at the moment, but I also
realized Bull had made a decision in this matter for me before I could jump to
any conclusions.
“He looks like a deer in the
headlights, man.” She laughed in spite
of herself and fell to the ground.
“What seems to be eating you, Roxy?”
Bull persisted and turned his chair around and sat in it backwards, elbows on
the backrest, fists under his chin.
“Fucking Beecher…”
“Beecher wore you out? I know from experience that you can probably
hold your own against him…” I could see
Bull’s expression changing from amusement to distaste.
“Well, no shit… but, you never tried
to dot my eye!”
“No, that’s not the way I do
things. How is he looking?”
“No worse for wear I suppose. I was dumbfounded when he sucker punched me
in the face, goddammit!”
“I suppose you were. Do you need a place to stay?” Bull asked, and pulled at his chin in a
gesture of second-guessing his question.
“Fuck no, we tried that once… and
you’re old lady would pitch a fit… she’ll probably blow a gasket when she finds
out you’re out here talking to me without her here.”
“Nah… that’s what this guys for… chaperone.” He jerked his thumb in my direction, to which
I held my hand out, palm up in his direction to affirm wordlessly what he had
volunteered me for.
“Fuck… I don’t know what to do
anymore, Bull.” She was exhausted and
started sobbing softly.
Up until this very moment, I had
never realized the great sense of compassion that existed inside of Bull. I had become comfortable with the razor sharp
wit, and devil-may-care attitude he had always exhibited around me. I was completely unprepared for the events
which transpired over the next several minutes, and I’m not sure I understand
exactly what it is that happened to this day.
I only know that I understood in that moment that whether or not this
woman had suffered Bull a divorce and dismantled his family, there were still
some things you didn’t do to the mother of his children.
Immediately I could feel the air change around us. My feeling of anxiety and pity changed to a
feeling of serenity and calm. I was so
surprised by the mood swing that I looked around, searching for whatever had
settled over me. Bull stood up from his
chair and walked towards the pile of bottles and cans we had been debating
minutes before. He bent over in front of
the pile and retrieved what looked to me like three different size steel
bearings from the dirt. He walked
towards Roxy, polishing the bearings in his flannel shirt with one hand and
placed the other hand on her shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort her.
“Everything is going to be okay,
Roxy.” Bull looked in my direction and
said, “Watch this man, this is gonna be cool…”
He bent his knees and lowered
himself to Roxy’s level and produced the three steel balls. One was the size of a marble, one was twice
that size, although a bit rustier than the first and the third was at least
twice the size of the second and it looked to weigh at least three pounds. Bull was squatting on a concrete slab that
looked to be a piece of sidewalk from somewhere.
“Let me show you something,
Roxy. You see these three things?”
“I see ‘em… yeah, what about ‘em?”
I heard a car door slam in the
distance and Bull pulled himself back up to a standing position turning his ear
towards the sound. “Wait for it…” he
murmured under his breath… anticipating…
From the house we all heard a door
at the house slam and Dayna started hollering, “Bull! Oh Shit… Buuuulllll!!! HURRY UP BULL! BEECHERS UP HERE HAVING SOME KIND OF FIT IN
THE FRONT YARD!! BULL?!?!”
“WE’RE COMING!” Bull held his hand out to Roxy and helped her
to her feet. I was confused and
startled, but I was on my feet and moving towards the house with them. I was several paces behind Roxy, who was
struck dumb along with me. We both kept
pace several steps behind Bull, who leisurely put his hands in his pockets and
started watching birds fly back and forth between the trees while he walked as
if nothing was happening.
When we made it to the front of the
house, we saw what had caused the commotion.
I assumed this was Beecher sprawled out in the front yard, frothing at
the mouth having some sort of seizure. He
had pissed himself and was awkwardly stiff and writhing around in what looked
to me like great pain.
“Oh fuck me!” Roxy shouted,
exasperated. She ran to Beecher and
knelt down by his convulsing body and grabbed his hands. “Beecher, you piece of shit, what the hell is
wrong with you? Oh God!”
“I’m not sure God did this…” Bull
mumbled slightly above his breath. I can
only assume this was an attempt at sarcasm, as he said it to himself, loud
enough for all of us to hear.
“What?” Roxy’s head swung back in
our direction. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”
“I dunno… you guys bangin’ dope
today? Looks like an overdose to
me. Unless Beecher’s epileptic and
forgot to tell you.” Bull was still
looking skyward, now watching a pair of turkey vultures circling each other far
above our heads.
Roxy pulled up her shirt sleeves in
denial. “Sober as a fucking judge,
Bull. Honest.”
“Most judges I know don’t spend a
lot of time sober.” Bull retorted. “Check him.”
Roxy pulled up Beecher’s shirt
sleeve and exposed a busted vein on his left arm and what looked like a good
thread of track marks. “Oh! You motherfucker! What the fuck do I do with him now?”
“If I were you, I’d drop him off at
the door to the county hospital and get the fuck out of there. Whatever you do, he needs to get the hell off
this property. I can’t have an OD here. I’m a felon, Roxy, a lot.”
“I’ll help you get him in the truck,
Roxy.” I finally found my voice and
moved in to help her slide him into the bed of his truck.
“He’ll be okay.” Bull said.
“Biggest always fall the hardest, Roxy.
Drop him off and get out of there.
Somewhere somebody will see him.”
While she was fumbling for her keys
I saw her look at the small, shiny bearing in her hand, then she looked at
Bull. Bull patted the large bearing in
his front shirt pocket. “Keep that one
safe. It’s small and easy to lose. It’s kind of pretty to look at too. Hurry up, Beecher needs a valium or
something.”
As I watched the truck speed off in
a cloud of dust on the gravel road, Bull pushed me on the shoulder blade. When I turned around to look at him he
pointed skyward.
“Guess those turkey vultures didn’t
find what they wanted here.”
The giant birds had lowered their
altitude and were keeping pace with the distant, speeding truck.
This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo
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