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April 15, 2008

Family Shit

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 15, 2008 5:49 PM
Permalink |  Happy Heartland Tour -- The Midwest '08  | Digg It

Everybody knows there’s a place called Kokomo. An odd tropical-island paradise in central Indiana. Nobody knows how it happens that an island with a tropical climate found its way to the middle of an Indiana lake, but Midwesterners love it. It’s become a vacation spot on par with Mackinac Island and Rhinelander, Wisconsin.

Margo didn’t exactly grow up here. Born in San Francisco, she lived in that weird, hippie-dippy city until she was old enough to participate in her parents’ lucrative confidence-scheme business. After that, they traveled the country before the elder Atwaters settled into retirement in Kokomo. Margo was 16 at the time and spent a few awkward high school years there, but she hasn’t returned since…until now.

After what happened in Milwaukee, and then what happened in Chicago, I decided to seek her out and win her back, venturing for the first time into the land of beautiful women, refreshing beverages, and relaxed marijuana laws. It was easier said than done.

A few hours after I breezed into town in the rental car I got in Chicago, I went to a diner on the edge of the island, the Kau’lakka Kaffe, which somehow managed to serve coffee in coconuts. Impressive. I asked them if they had a local telephone directory, and the heavily tanned, steel-haired woman behind the long counter sighed and reached under the counter for it.

Using my worse-for-wear laptop, I consulted the website to refresh my memory of the Atwaters’ first names. I consulted the directory and found a total of one (1) entry: ATWATER, M, most likely for “Mitch,” her father’s name. Because the counter lady was staring at me the whole time, I wrote down the address and phone number instead of just tearing the sheet out of the phonebook.

Puzzling over the address, I asked the counter lady, “Do you know where Madalagahikku Avenue is?”

“You see that road out there?” she asked, jerking her thumb at the four-lane drag that circled the island.

“You mean Reed Road?”

She nodded. “Take that about half a mile until you see a palm tree hangin’ over the road, shaped like a camel. After that, go through two red lights, and the first street just after the second light, turn right—it’s the only way you can turn. That’s Madalagahikku. You visitin’ the Atwaters or something?”

“How’d you know?” I asked, feeling a sudden burst of paranoia.

The counter lady chuckled and said, “You’ll see.”

I gave her a foul look and stiffed her on the tip and took a drive down Reed. True to her word, the a massive palm tree that resembled the outline of a camel’s back and head hung overhead. I kept going for the two lights, then made my right on Madalagahikku.

And I saw.

A massive, indescribably beautiful mansion cast a deep shadow along the narrow road. The house somehow managed to blend old English grandiosity with a modern tropical flavor. A 20-foot wrought-iron gate with the name ATWATER emblazoned on a garish, gold-leafed sign blocked my way.

“Jesus,” I said.

In lieu of a security guard in a little booth, the Atwaters took the smarter approach of having a keypad/intercom system. I pushed the intercom button and shouted, “Hello?!”

By way of response, a bullet whizzed past my head. Until it smashed into the asphalt and bounced uselessly along the road, I felt the bullet crush air in my direction more than actually hearing it. I’ve had enough experience dodging gunfire to know the feeling.

I pushed the intercom button again. “Christ, Margo, I just wanna talk to you!”

Somewhere in the distance, I heard a powerful rat-a-tat followed by a much louder, much closer metal clanging. In an instant, the intercom box somehow became dented, followed by a sizzling sound and a plume of white smoke rising in the air.

“I guess talking’s out,” I muttered to myself.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It reminded me of Margo. I checked it out. 1 NEW TXT. The message read:

leave me alone

I wrote back, No.

About 15 seconds later, the rat-a-tat started up again, and I heard the hammer of steel and shattering of glass, felt odd vibrations within the car.

Christ, I thought as I ducked for cover. I expected this type of thing in Michigan, but not here!

Crouching, I texted her again: Ok, ok, Ill leave.

The shooting stopped. The car was still running, albeit roughly, so I backed it back out onto Reed Road, hopped out of the car, and snuck through the dense jungle until I reached the mammoth concrete fence that kept prowlers out of the Atwaters’ safe haven. I made the rookie mistake of leaving my rappelling gear back in L.A., so I had to think of a clever way to get through.

Walking along the edge of the fence, I discovered a palm that hung a few feet over the fence, into the compound. Palm trees are much more difficult to climb than you might imagine. Though the bark is fairly husked and easy to grasp, it’s coated in some sort of oil that destroys your grasping ability. Add to that the tree’s arcing trunk, and you might understand the colossal effort I put into scaling this tree.

Once I got to the other side, slippery hands gripping the fronds, it occurred to me that I was hanging about 40 feet in the air.

Crucificionados know that I follow the Church of Rafelman, a polytheistic religion that discourages prayer. Instead, Rafelmanic leaders insist upon a strict regimen of confession for purposes of enlightenment and extortion. Even so, I was raised Catholic, and at times like these I lift my eyes skyward and pray for my life.

I concentrated my eyes on the sky as I let go, trying to get myself tucked into a ball for minimal bone breakage. I hit the ground with enough force to knock my wind out, but other than that I felt all right.

Then I stood up, or tried to. I got to my feet and immediately collapsed, howling in pain. I dragged myself along the lush, tropical lawn, heading for the house.

Moments later, I was lying in a comfortable bed, all bandaged up. Margo stood over me, in mid-sentence.

“—figure out how you don’t understand my feelings.”

“I’m sorry?”

Margo groaned. “Case in point.”

“No,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I just blacked out. It was actually kind of awesome.”

“What? Just now?”

“Out on the lawn,” I said. “The last thing I remember is dragging myself toward the house, and then like that—” I snapped my fingers— “I was here, and you were talking.”

“You son of a bitch!” Margo shrieked. “We just spent the last hour talking everything out, and I was talking to your…your…”

“Subconscious?”

“Rat bastard!”

“What did he say?”

“He was more gentlemanly than you’ll ever be,” Margo spat.

“But he is me,” I said. “Unfiltered. Raw. Charged.”

“So what you’re saying,” Margo said, “is that your true nature is to not go to a wild sex party where a bunch of skanky girls wait in line to suck you off? But when you’re ‘filtered’ by your conscious mind, you’ll willingly do something so asinine and hurtful?”

“The human mind is very mysterious,” I said.

For the second time that day, I felt an intense burst of pain. In an instant, my head went from looking at Margo to looking out the window, and my teeth were killing me.

“What the fuck?!” I slurred.

“I have half a mind to castrate you, Girth,” Margo said. “The only reason I don’t is because…well…you know…”

“Sex cauldron?”

She nodded somberly.

“I do love you, Margo,” I said. “I just…I guess I have a problem…”

“Oh God!” Margo shouted. “You aren’t going to tell me you’re a sex addict again, are you?! I know for a fact that that’s bullshit. You’re just an asshole!”

“Am I going to meet your family?” I asked.

“If I can hide their guns well enough,” Margo said. “You never should have come here.”

“Did you really think I’d just let you go?”

“At first, I hoped you would,” Margo said. “I’m disgusted with you. But…seeing you here…the lengths you were willing to go… Most people have more sense than to almost kill themselves to talk to me. The fact that you don’t makes me believe you do love me, and you don’t do any of those things to hurt me. You’re just…a fucking idiot.”

I let that slide because Margo was upset.

“Are you feeling well enough for dinner?” she asked abruptly.

“I guess…”

“Cook will gong when it’s ready. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

Margo left the room quietly, leaving me wondering if I’d be able to navigate to the dining room without help.

I took a moment to breathe in the opulent surroundings, but I noticed something a little strange. On the surface, the place has a gorgeous, austere quality, dazzling to the eyes and the senses. When you paid attention, if you know anything about architecture or design (and I do, thanks to my three-month stint as a stockboy for Molopää, the Finnish rival to Ikea), it’s hard not to notice how nothing really fits together—it’s a hodgepodge of styles and decorations that somehow forms its own, unique style.

Before I could take the time to wonder if the Atwaters had built a home entirely out of crap they’ve stolen over the years, I heard a loud, low gong.

Humming the tune from “Kung Fu Fighting,” pulled myself out of bed. I felt some minor pain, but it really wasn’t too bad. Margo’s ability to practice field medicine never ceases to impress me. I wonder where she picked that up. I walked along a wide, brightly lit corridor lined with precious artworks and/or cheap knockoffs. At the end of the hall, I found a stairwell that took me down to the grand entrance hall.

A soused-looking elderly butler wavered in one corner. I yelled, “Hey, Jeeves, you know where the dining hall is?!”

“Indeed, Master McDürchstein.” The butler nodded gravely.

He led me through a small door into a high-ceilinged room with one of the longest tables I’ve ever seen. Three people sat at the other end: Margo and her parents. None of them looked all that happy to see me, which is weird because I thought Margo and I had just made up.

I sat down and quietly said, “Mr. and Mrs. Atwater, I am legendary rock star Girth McDürchstein. Pleasure to meet you.”

Mitch Atwater, scrawny and long-faced with salt-and-pepper hair, sneered at me as I extended my hand for a shake. “My daughter got weak under your watch.”

His wife, Cornflake, is definitely where Margo got the good looks. She’s a total MILF, despite her penchant for flowing, multicolored hippie apparel. She gave me a sour look but didn’t say anything.

“Her strength is one of the reasons I fell in love with her,” I said.

“Sure,” Mitch said. “Then you got fat and she got weak, but neither of you noticed because you were too busy ram-sticking her.”

I thought about this for a moment. “True.”

“You’ll have to excuse Mitch,” Cornflake interjected insincerely. “He’s still upset you let that girl get the drop on you. In Margo’s glory years, she never would have let that happen.”

“What?” I asked. I felt an incredible amount of pain when Margo kicked me under the table. I tried not to yelp, so instead I felt my face shrivel, prune-like, as involuntary tears began to fall.

“She’s one of the best spotters we’ve ever known,” Cornflake continued. “She can always spot a mark and always spot a fellow grifter. We were shocked when we learned that they took all your money.”

“Now, listen—”

“I guess it’s just the way things happen when you get too trusting,” Mitch said.

“Margo, are you gonna let them—?”

“Girth!” Margo snapped.

“Trusting people isn’t a bad thing, honey,” Cornflake said. “But a certain low-level distrust isn’t unhealthy.”

“Margo never trusted her!” I yelled. “It was me. All me. From the beginning, Margo had her doubts. Even after the DNA test, she doubted it—”

“Do you know how easily those can be faked?” Mitch asked.

“No.”

“Well…it’s pretty easy.”

“Fair enough. Maybe that’s why she didn’t fall for it. I did. If Margo has any faults—and I’m not saying she does, or that this is a legitimate fault—but if she has one, it’s that she trusts me. Shouldn’t a wife trust her husband?”

Mitch nodded, but he didn’t look happy about it.

“I’m the patsy. She tried to convince me, but I refused to listen. I just… I guess I loved the idea that there’s another piece of me in the world. Even the whole thing with the Condomes wasn’t Margo’s fault. She wasn’t even around, but she probably would have talked me out of it or exposed the fraud or something. She didn’t even know until it was too late.”

Mitch and Cornflake looked stunned.

“This isn’t what she told us,” Cornflake said. “She said it was all her fault.”

“She’s either blaming herself or protecting me,” I said. “Or both.”

I suddenly grabbed Margo’s free hand. She squeezed it.

“I’ve tried to learn as much from Margo as I can, but sometimes I’m just too stubborn to truly listen. Fortunately, Margo’s always paying attention. We complement each other, I guess.”

Cornflake actually smiled. Mitch softened a little.

“This is true, isn’t it, Margie?” Mitch said.

“I told you not to call me that,” Margo gasped, “but yes. It’s true.”

He nodded, his scowl melting into a wide grin.

“Welcome to the family, Mr. McDürchstein.”

The next few days were nice—recuperating as I got to know the Atwaters, learned about their great scores and their near-misses, saw pictures of little Margo growing up, learning to grift, doing off-books work for the KGB. It made me fall in love with Margo all over again and realize that, whether I want to admit it or not, we need each other. I can’t live without her.

I love her.