Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Tag: Southern Kansas Weather

  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four

    Through the night, we stayed huddled around Dan who alternated between sobbing and screaming. We kept him as comfortable as possible, changed his bandages, and tried to keep him from moving around with little success.

    At one point, he tried to sit and all he ended up doing was sliding across the pipe protruding from his stomach. He shouted in pain and promptly passed out. This was really for the best because if he moved anymore it wouldn’t matter what happened when we finally found a doctor.

    Charlie kept watch on the door with a shotgun. I guess he thought he was the prime choice for looters, or he expected a pack of wolves. I took a seat by the canned water and listened to the wind and rain pound the diner waiting for another tornado.

    I must have fallen asleep. When I woke it was a little passed 6 am and still dark. Everything was silent, and no one was with me in the storm shelter. The whole room was calm, and I wondered if I passed out drunk and dreamed the whole thing.

    Then I noticed Dan had stopped moaning and someone had covered his head with a blanket. I knew right away I had missed something. I pulled the blanket away and uncovered Dan’s gray face. I didn’t see him struggling to breathe or moaning anymore.

    Dead? What the hell? I lost chance at finding out what he had been up to and what the hell was going on with the weather, the Air Force, and my brother. The family and I stopped being close when I ran off, but still this was much. Family reunions don’t end in death.

    I replaced the blanket and stared across the room. It was as dark and empty as I felt.

    “What the hell is going on?” I demanded as I climbed the storm shelter stairs. A somber group scrutinized me as I emerged from the basement.

    “The storm didn’t blow us away,” Sally reported. “And, we think that guy died.”

    Her comment took me aback because it felt so cold. No one knew the guy was my brother. Still, I expected some sympathy.

    “I need a cup of coffee.” I motioned for Sally to bring me a mug.

    “How do you plan to pay for it?” I smiled and waved her over. I figured she was kidding.

    “It’s been a long night and I need it.” I held up my coffee cup and Sally stood dangling the coffee pot behind her. “You didn’t pay for breakfast yesterday and I doubt you can pay for breakfast this morning.”

    “Sally, just fill the cup!” She stood there like she was dug in. I fished out my wallet and sorted through the receipts, scraps of paper, and a picture of my mom. I found no cash hidden behind mom’s photo.

    I thought, Sally heard the whole thing. Surely, she had to know what kind of night it had been and was more than willing to help a guy out. I made me mad when she acted this way.

    I decided to beg. “C’mon Sally. Just give me a cup of coffee.”

    “No can do amigo. If you can’t pay, then you can’t play.”

    I motioned for Charlie to see if he had any cash. He shook his head no. My head was throbbing from a headache, my brother was lying dead under our feet, and the last thing I needed was the day starting without coffee.

    “The mayor came in here half-an-hour ago looking for you to do some cleanup down the street,” said Sally. “Maybe he can buy you breakfast.”

    I had many questions and glanced over to the storm cellar door. Was that really Dan? I needed that coffee. Sally wouldn’t budge, and she pointed to the pile of rubble.

    “He wants you to clean up the street, so it appears he’s doing something about the storm,” she said. The city had a habit of letting everything else go, but the block around city hall and the mayor’s store always sparkled.

    The mess went beyond a small amount of garbage on the sidewalk. Charlie and I removed a tree branch from the mayor’s store, boarded up a broken picture window at City Hall, shored up the corner of a wall where some bricks were missing, and swept out a mound of mud and rock blocking the entrance to the store. We worked three hours, and the mayor handed us each a $20 bill. “I like having you guys around,” he said.

    Carrying enough money to buy breakfast, we walked back to the diner.

    “I wonder if it is all coincidence? A guy shows up screaming and hollering, the Air Force pops in, and then a storm targets the medical clinic,” said Charlie. “Feels like more to it.”

    “Maybe. Or, it might just be a series of odd events.” I held the door to the diner open.

    “I don’t know,” said Charlie.

    “One thing is for sure. There is a dead guy below all those people.” We shuffled and took a seat at the counter.

    I squeezed next to a farmer and placed the $20 on the counter.

    “Hey Sally. Here’s enough for yesterday and today. Now, bring us some coffee.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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    control the weatherJake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Five
    Read more: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four
  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two

    The stranger lay on his stomach randomly screaming about “the tyranny of the state” and “the air force knows a secret.” At one point he caught my eye like he was pleading “help me, man.”

    “I swear he could be your brother.”

    “I know. I find it hard not to stare,” I replied.

    It was improbable and impossible because Dan was dead.

    The sheriff and his deputies raised the flag burner from the ground and led him to their car. I wondered why they were putting so much effort into the arrest. It’s not like he triggered a bomb. But again, looking around at the shocked faces, I suppose lighting up the U.S. Flag in the center of town was just as bad for these folks.

    “I will try to talk to him,” I told Charlie who gave me a notion he was done with the excitement.

    “You go ahead. I will go take a nap.” Charlie walked off towards the hardware store, where I presumed, he planned to count cars and sleep.

    They took the guy down to the medical clinic where I waited until dark clouds rolled over the west. A steady stream of thunder boomers headed north to Nebraska and Iowa to dump rain, hail, and perhaps, a tornado in a cornfield. We had missed the brunt of the storm.

    In fact, all the thunderstorms this spring rolled away from Pretty Prairie. Even though I could use the work clearing debris, I am no fan of tornadoes. The thought Mother Nature can swat me away like a flea sends lightening bolts to my boots.

    I lit another cigarette and strained to focus through the glass window of the clinic. They still had the flag burner locked inside for medical tests and whatever else they decided he needed. I imagined he had to focus on pictures of patriotic children saluting the flag to prove he was squeamish. Goodness, who burns a flag in one of the most backwater places in America? Not for the TV trucks because there were none. He had to be nuts for even trying it here.

    Besides wondering what would happen to the guy, I also wanted a second take of him. My brother Dan died when he stepped on one of those homemade explosives in Afghanistan. He was dead. I went to the funeral. So why did this guy remind me so much of Dan? There had to be a believable explanation.

    I dropped the stub of the cigarette and crushed it with my toe. As I reached for my another, a weary Air Force truck stopped in front of the clinic. It was rusted like it needed a bath and a shine.

    A baby airman climbed from the driver’s side of the truck and ran around to the other door. He soon followed a cranky officer wearing a blue field shirt with a bunch of patches above the words “US Air Force” and a patch on his right arm showing he was Special Operations. He was important enough for the baby airman to rush to yank on the door of the clinic. They passed me loitering by the door without even looking my way.

    The clinic door slowed to a stop, and I slipped in behind them. The clinic waiting room was empty but I could hear shouting from the back. I creaked the door to the hallway and heard the important officer standing and shouting. He demanded to talk to the flag burner and a young nurse was stammering.

    “I… I… can’t let you bother him,” she squeaked out.

    “I don’t care what you can’t do,” the man barked. “I’m only interested in seeing my airman.”

    An older man in a white robe entered the hallway followed by a deputy. The doctor took no time in confronting the angry man.

    “You need to leave,” he declared. “We are not allowing anyone in to talk,” he paused, “or threaten him.” The doctor pushed the air force colonel with a jab of his thumb. This didn’t go over very well and the officer did not hide his irritation. The deputy placed his hand on his gun as a precaution.

    The cranky officer and the doctor stated a stare down and I wondered who would blink first. The officer let out a blast of air like a punctured tire and placed his flat hand on the doctor’s shoulder. He leaned in until he was inches from the doctor’s nose. Even I flinched at his sneer. This went on for a few minutes until I decided it was a good time to interrupt.

    “Um,” I paused because what I was about to say sounded impossible. “Um. I think he might be my brother.”

    “That seems far-fetched,” challenged the doctor. “Why would he be your brother?”

    The cranky officer and the doctor finally agreed.

    I shrugged my shoulders, “I recognize him.”

    The officer rushed to yell at me more. “The guy you think is your brother is a deserter, an enemy, and he needs to go with me.” He stressed with a hateful face. “This guy is just one of his anarchy friends.”

    The baby airman showed me disdain to add emphasis to his boss’ words.

    “Honestly, I’ve never seen him. He feels familiar,” I replied with more than a little nonchalance. Everyone waited for me to go on.

    I told them about my brother Dan and how this guy resembled him. I made myself out as a neutral party and explained how it couldn’t hurt to talk to him, and besides, as soon as I cleared this up I could go find some work. I waited as the cranky officer, the baby airman, and the doctor weighed what they would say.

    The commotion had made me more curious than anything and I wanted to figure out this thing about my brother Dan.

    “Maybe I can check?” I offered and started toward the door.

    Everyone stared at me until the doctor spoke up. “Sure. Let’s see if you’re related to him,” he decided. “You gentlemen can just as soon go. I’m not letting you back there.”

    I squeezed passed the officer, and he snarled as I went by.

    “Oh, we’ll be back with some MPs,” barked the colonel. “And we’ll take that airman back with us. You can count on it.”

    “Don’t you worry Colonel Cox,” the deputy chuckled. “He won’t spill any state secrets.” He laughed as the cranky officer huffed and stormed down the hall.

    I followed the doctor and the deputy into the middle of the room, where the sheriff and another deputy towered over the flag burner. He sat on an exam bed wearing handcuffs and a restraining belt.

    I could tell the stranger had been struggling to get out of his cuffs, and he was only sitting still because he had decided he couldn’t flee. It made sense because a wide deputy stood next to him like a bull terrier. The flag burner wouldn’t be going anywhere.

    “What’s your name?” asked the doctor.

    “I’m Jake. You stitched up my hand last week.” The doctor ignored me.

    “Well, Jake, I doubt he’s your brother, but we’ll see.”

    The wind kicked up and whistled through the vents sending debris into the utility pipes on the roof. Leaves and broken branches danced over the skylight. I assumed the edge of the storm had moved closer to Pretty Prairie and was taking some of our garbage with it.

    I took stock of the flag burner. His eyes were brown, while Dan’s were blue. His chin appeared wider than Dan’s. Although, he had my brother’s scar from when he flew over the handlebars and landed hard on the pavement.

    The stranger had Dan’s blonde hair, slender nose, and my thin lips. But it was the feeling I got inside when he glanced back that suggested familiarity, like I had eaten breakfast with this guy or hung out in our Dodge Charger drinking beer.

    It was a familiarity; like we shared a secret.

    “Dan?” The flag burner did not respond. I knelt down in front of the stranger and put my hand on his shoulder. “Dan?”

    The stranger smiled.

    “Do you remember the time we set off bottle rockets and almost took down the Pine Street bridge?” The guy just stared.

    “How about the time we slid down the ice sheet and ended up sliding across the road in front of those cars?”

    The flag burner followed my eyes, and I tried to see some recognition. He turned to the deputy and shuddered. He returned to my eyes and laughed.

    “This is my brother Jakey.” The flag burner went from pointing and laughing to pointing and crying. “He’s my brother Jake,” he stammered.

    I rose to give the man a hug, and the deputy took a step back. Something about the hug appeared off and as I brought my brother closer he spoke into my ear, “You’ve got to rush me out of here before that colonel comes back.”

    I pulled back, and the guy whispered, “We’re not safe.”

    A huge gust of wind ripped the roof off the clinic like it was a sardine can and it sucked the doctor, sheriff, and the deputy into a violent funnel cloud. The wind tossed Dan into a corner and me under a table where I clung to the legs as the wind tried to suck me out. Then the wind stopped and an eerie silence took over.

    “Dan?” I yelled. “Dan? Are you alive?”

    I rushed to the corner where Dan lay on his side bleeding from a gash in his head.

    “I need your help,” he gasped. “The Air Force wants to kill me because I know all about their weather machine weapon.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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    Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One
    Read more: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two
  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One

    I like my steak well-done, my eggs runny, and my toast black.

    My waitress, who always wears a blouse with just enough cleavage showing, popped my toast in again to make sure she charred it. I appreciate the little touches provided by this dive of a cafe on the main drive of Pretty Prairie in southern Kansas. A regular three-calendar restaurant where the farmers arrive early to drink coffee and fight over who has the tallest sweet corn. Ever since my car overheated on the outskirts of town, I have sipped Irish coffee, listened to the squawking farmers, and dabbed my runny eggs with black toast.

    As far as engine trouble, I might have done worse and ended up in Nebraska. Besides, this town needs me. A small place always favors a guy willing to do the stuff no one else will do, and well, I am that guy: Jake Rutledge, handyman. I am that roustabout people call when they need something fixed, thrown away, or made better.

    Early this morning, I eyeballed a fortunate sign on the western horizon as storm clouds formed at daybreak. The chance of a windstorm always meant someone would need a fence repaired, a tree cut, or a something found. I had no worries of the threat of a tornado. The fight over nature is something I can handle.

    I waved at Sally and pointed at my coffee.

    “You want to fill my mug?” I gave an expectant glance with a hint of sarcasm.

    Sally rested on a hip and stared through me. Like everyone else in this town, I got the impression she took joy in taking time to ponder if she wanted to help. Sure, a small puddle of coffee had dried in the bottom of my mug, and I wanted more. Nevertheless, I had to give Sally time to decide if I needed another cup. She took her time to reach for the pot and shuffle over to my end of the counter.

    As Sally lifted the pot over my cup, she teased, “So, do you still love me?” She had a sweet smile.

    “Pour the coffee and we’ll talk.”

    “Oh, the man doesn’t approve when I refuse to jump at his beck and call.” She returned the coffee to her hip.

    “I don’t care if you jump, as long as you’re quick about it.”

    The coffee filled to the brim and a steam cloud rose from the mug. Sally curtsied. Then she blew a bubble, snapped the gum with a pop, and winked before turning away. I admire Sally’s sass, but she should spit out the gum.

    I took a sip of the coffee and realized it needed a refresher. In my coat, I reached for my flask of whiskey, poured a finger into my mug, and took a sip. Overall, a fine version of a leprechaun’s kiss.

    “The car is still dead?” This line of questioning was rote. The person sitting next to me always started the morning by asking me when we were leaving.

    “I have my priorities. I would love to leave but I couldn’t hang out with you.”

    My neighbor laughed a deep hoarse rattle that became a cough.

    “You know Charlie, you ought to visit a doctor.”

    “Well, I ain’t got the money,” Charlie stated.

    We made a pair; two drifters stuck in Pretty Prairie, Kansas. Charlie Wadmeyer, landed here by riding with me in my junk of a car. He has always been tailing me and helps me when I need it. We go back to kindergarten, and he is my best friend. When he’s not following me around, he sits outside Honeyman’s Hardware down the street and watches the traffic. Once he counted two cars at once. You know how slow it can get in a small town.

    The noise from the farmer’s corner reminded me of hens in a chicken barn. I sipped my coffee and eavesdropped.

    “And so the guy shows up and plugs in a doodad and tells me the alternator is bad.” The old farmer nudged his glasses above his nose.

    “In the old days, you could diagnose it yourself.” I thought he might shout. His friends stirred their coffee mugs and waiting for him to continue.

    “Well, now a guy with a computer needs to tell you what’s wrong.”

    “Computers run everything nowadays,” another farmer waxed philosophical wearing a John Deere hat.

    “Yeah, unless I need a refill,” the old farmer remembered. “Hey, Sally. I need more coffee.” I held in a laugh. Darn if she didn’t glaze through him too.

    Sally eventually shuffled over to the farmers snapping her gum and balancing the coffee pot in her left hand. I could never call her one of those quick diner waitresses. It didn’t matter. Before she made it to the table, the whole booth of faded blue overalls stood to peer out the window.

    It had to be exciting for these guys to jump out of the seat, so when the farmers craned their necks to take it in, I decided I had better watch too.

    I had to push through the farmers to spy what was happening, and from what I could tell, nothing good would come of the spontaneous outrage in the parking lot. Surrounded by two cowboys, a pregnant mom, her kids, and a deputy sheriff, a lanky blonde stranger was dragging Stars and Stripes on the ground. He was shouting at the crowd.

    The deputy sheriff pulled the mom and her boys away from the protest. The two cowboys flanked the man who wore a black riding boots and full leather motorcycle gear. He pulled out a lighter setting the national emblem ablaze. This only enraged the cowboys. As flames touched the stars, both of them tackled the stranger to the ground. He let out a scream as the deputy stomped out the burning flag. Those cowboys might as well had hog-tied the man. He struggled to push away a boot on his back and squirmed around toward the cafe.

    By now we were all outside, me, Charlie, the farmers, Sally and everyone else. The guy rolled away from the cowboys and stood with one cowboy holding his leg. Charlie and I ran over to stop the guy from leaving. He threw a punch that landed right on my chin. I stumbled back while Charlie ducked another punch. I shook off the shock of the upper cut and tackled the guy to the ground. He landed hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and he appeared winded too. I rolled off the stranger as Charlie ran up.

    “Hey Jake,” Charlie noted. “That guy could be you.”

    Charlie was right. The man resembled me and how my face might appear if I was trying to fight off my attackers in a parking lot in Kansas.

    I took a second glance and then it hit me. The guy reminded me more of my brother Dan who died fighting in Afghanistan.

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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    Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Four Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Six Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing – Part Nine Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three
    Read more: Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One